They say that the worst kind of grieving

is when the lost antagonist is still alive,

whether sudden as a spring swallow’s dive

or a slow wintered bewilderment in the leaving.

Buried, burnt or butchered cruelly out of heart

that did endure with vexation and veneration,  

fear of being alone or guilt of being causation

of their final yield to the wind that blows love apart.

But do we still wish to live in a solitary moratorium,

coveting our fervorous hearts in a slate stone mirth?

© Katypoetess 2016