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.

We are; We are not

We are suns:
Centres of our own universe
With other little worlds
Orbiting our radiance.

We are planets and moons,
Travelling,
Pulled by the gravity
Of a star too dense to resist.

We are trees:
Birds nest in our branches,
We bear fruit,
Live long, rooted lives.

We are drops in an ocean,
Sometimes riding high
On the crest of a wave,
Sometimes sinking into unmapped depths.

We are fleas
On an overpopulated dog,
Clinging on in spite of scratches and sprays,
Believing we have built the world.

We are God:
All is nothing,
And we are nothing something nothing;
One with all that never was.