Death begets an ugly child who clings and gripes without relief.
Sexless, heartless, void of hope, I name that bastard infant "Grief".
Grief, the devil's favourite offspring, suckles at the broken heart.
Bleeds us empty as a vacuum, claws our very souls apart.
Grief: conceived and born in one when fatal accidents arise
Or else gestates through many seasons, swelling as a loved one dies.
Grievers each tell different stories, different phases day by day.
Each appalling, each despairing, each unique in its own way.
Grief infects the world around us, closest friends are stricken first.
Those who love us best and dearest, suffer through our grief the worst
Grief is sly, it hides and changes, festers in its slimy lair.
Strikes in our unguarded moments, half forgetting it was there.
Lucky then are those for whom the passing years have eased the pain.
Locked away the grief and heartache, only seldom felt again.
Not to say the dear departed ever should be lost to mind.
Memories of happy times bring comfort of a special kind.
Life is small so share it wisely, kindly without fear or fuss.
Then perhaps at our departing folk might briefly grieve for us.
© Allan Bantick September 2018