Grief is like a wrecking ball

made out of ice.

A lump of ice that thumps you

in the heart.

You go for days,

it’s like it always was.

And then . . . .

a name, a thought, an image or a song

and here it comes.

Here comes the wrecking ball again.

I wear a hard hat every day,

it does no good,

I know that I am going to fall -

and here it comes again.

It’s out to get me now.

It rears back on it's rusty chain.

That bloody fucking wrecking ball.