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?
