Grief is parasitic, like a barnacle

that latches onto the skin of its host,

It lives inside you, growing and gnawing,

It finds a home in the deepest trenches

of your heart and sits quietly, mostly.

Ever so often, rearing its head

and pulling at the strings

you thought you had exhausted.

Grief is narcissistic, like a Greek huntsman

Who falls in love with his own reflection,

Bringing with it, a melancholia that

Resides in the crevices of your core,

Enkindling at moments unlikely.

What is it about grief and its capo

That silences the clamour of the

Very strings that contain it?



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I'm a teacher and a writer. My life runs on my love for literature and poetry and music and cinema.