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