He couldn’t sleep – again
It had been a long time since he’d sat here
And fine cobwebs now criss-crossed his desk.
He dusted his black swivel chair and sat down
At the same time brushing aside the sticky grey fronds.
He thought the urge to write something had left him
And yet take up his pen once more he did.
He let all the words tumble out as fast as his pen gave up its ink
Like an eerie, strange and enchanted dance in the burlesque
As page after page of endless writing flowed
None of it making any sense or reason
Until suddenly –
his hand stopped and he wrote no more, he’d finished.
And looking at the hundred or so pages he realised
He realised just what grief looked like.
He wept and left his study in mind-numbing sorrow.
He would wait for that elusive sunrise
That brought the brighter tomorrow.
©Joe Wilson – Grief…2019