Mourning
Language clinically conspires to make the event
a reality undeniable, a fait accompli,
forcing the mind to use the correct labels.
Words wring wounds until they submit and gasp.
A lively life reduced to terms of the past,
as if with ceasing, it has been seized.
No longer do loves, laughs or fears work.
Now, they twist into distorted versions.
But the soul and heart resist this logic,
still think in the sense of now, and oft
escape the ponderous chains of constraint.
For love can’t ever be bound,
For loss will always be forever,
For hurt never truly heals from mourning.
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