Grief is an alone thing.
It surrounds and it consumes
that normal place we live in,
that place that still presumes
that the seconds flow to moments,
that a touch will still be there.
It swallows wisps of happiness.
It whispers "Don't you dare
consider yourself innocent."
It knows that you're to blame.
It points its bony finger and
it calls to you by name.
And you think of all that might have been,
and curse what's come to be.
No gentle word can alter. . .
there is grief. . . and there is me.
written by Jay Warmke - September, 1997