Gone (or There's nothing kind about Grief)

The loneliness seeps in.

Beginning as a mosquito bite -

An irritation to be brushed aside -

Then fledging into an infected

Sore: a chest burning,

Belly bloating, leg leadening

Weeping wound

That steals breath and

Hope alike.

Days are a daze

And minutes are minefields;

The wrong one sneaking up

To cut your legs away.