Shadows of Grief

There’s something wonderful about saying

that life doesn't fall apart all at once,

that it comes apart thread by thread

and moment by moment, unwoven so slowly

that each strand untangles

without a single tug on the rest of life.

But I cannot believe it.

Not when I have seen grief

as steadfast as a shadow;

for a shadow is forever affixed

to a soul, is woven between

the earth and any life imprinted upon it,

an echo of their image

formed to follow at every step.

And grief like that is only forgotten

when the soul has lost itself in darkness.

Some lose themselves in ink.

They wrap their grief in lettered scars

and become but a blur on a page...

The rolling waves of his grin as

chased by the splash of her glare.

They drown in words.

But the shadow is there,

though hidden from sight.

And in the words is a murmur of voices,

a feeling of muscles that ripple,

an image of a brother in all but name

to hoist them up and carry them on.

The weight drags both of them down,

and only one returns to surface—

to sunlight—followed by a shadow of grief.

Then, at last, the sun falls away.

But even in the midst of darkened night,

the memory of light stains the sky

in the threaded patterns of the stars.

It cannot be escaped,

nor the shadow truly forgotten.

But perhaps, grief comes

not when a shadow is formed,

but when a shadow is lost.

And the life woven into the earth

by its shadow is only remembered

by a frayed soul,

when it has lost itself in darkness.

Some lose themselves in ink.

They fold their cries in deafened paper

and form an echo of life on a page...

Taste the salt of ocean spray

when they dive back beneath the water.

They drown in words,

wrinkle every faded promise

until the pages tear.

The shadow is gone,

though in the dark it’s almost seen.

And in the words is the drifting of silence,

the feeling of ripples gone still,

an image of a brother

in the ink of their name…

and nothing more.