art apropos

Grief is a thing that’s purring
ever softly in the hole
watching me without a sound
waiting for dark to fall.

When sleep forlorn comes stopping by
and the candle’s burning down,
is it a rustle that I hear
beneath the eiderdown?

Grief is a blade that glitters
like pupils in the dark
glinting with no warning sign
leaving me bewildered.

When grains of sand slip slurring by
that sudden flash is dulled,
to a rounded river stone
that reminds but doesn’t hurt.

Grief is a thing that scratches
wee morsels out my hand
or digs a claw into my thigh
hearing a distant whirr

Then in a flash he’s off again
in a cloud of orange dust.
Was he real or was it just
a ghost of distant past?

Brief is the thing that fluttered
like a pennant in my chest
tiptoeing in and out of time,
in shadows under breaths.

Of all the friends he could’ve had
he loved me quite the best.