A budding writer's collection

Grief

Joy comes blowing trumpets,

Beating drums, stomping its feet,

Confetti in the air.

Joy comes like sitting beside the fire,

Blanket up to shoulders,

Feet in worn-out, threadbare socks.

Joy also comes,

Like the fleeting frames of a montage,

Afraid to linger and lose its charm.

But grief?

Yes, the same one that makes you shudder,

Loss and Ache, Pain and Misery,

The wind that blows away the last candle of hope.

Grief never comes knocking, does it?

Manners be damned 'cause it knows,

It won't be entertained once the host knows.

But does it know?

Sometimes, all the host has ever known

Is salt dripping onto their lips,

And the world blurring in an instant.

Somedays, all the host cares for,

Is to be hugged by the ache of yore

To know that pain, the double-edged sword.

It makes them fall, but fuels the fire within,

The fire to stand.

Grief must know, in its own way,

Because each time there's a void freed within,

It hurries to fill its place,

Something in place of everything.