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Sweet Blessed Poetry

Sweet Blessed Poetry
                    55.

There is a ripeness to our labor
As tumbled words are laid to bare.
We strain against the sands of time
To preen the thoughts found there.

If our beatific Muse be predisposed
To divulge that which ought to be.
We get to peek behind the curtain...
Oh sweet blessed poetry.

               The End

          Love's Address
                  56.

I've put my house in order.
I've made peace with those above.
I've set aside my peculiarities.
I'm ready now for love.

But my efforts are contentious
And this haunts my every prayer
As love holds no current address
For which I am aware.

               The End

                 Loss
                  57.

How does someone over-come 
The loss of a child? An affliction 
Of such magnitude... all others 
Pale in comparison. A huge chasm
Opening the soul to such misery 
And sorrow... both fair and foul 
Succumb to tears. The comfort 
Of others becomes trivial and 
Unimportant. Love evaporates. 
The putrid air reeks of discontent.
You cannot breath. You are alone. 
You are as close to Death as a 
Living person can be. You are
The walking dead. You cannot 
Imagine how life can be so obtuse. 
Someone tells you, 'They're in a 
Better place.' Your fists clench In 
Rage. They wisely walk away. You 
Cannot eat. You cannot sleep. Your 
Mind races to make sense of it all. 
You drift back down the stairs. 
There are brownies... your child's 
Favorite, cruelly baked by a well-
Meaning neighbor. There is a note... 
'Tomorrow will be better.' There is no
Tomorrow. There is only an endless 
Parade of what you feel today.

              The End

bereavementdeathlossnarrative

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