Grief is a state of being.
It comes when it comes
and it leaves gradually.
It isn’t poetic;
it isn’t magic.
It is an unexplainable truth that is told by one,
with no remorse.
With no dictation.
Grief just is.
But the art in never seeing you again
Dreams across horizons of orange and red,
in deepening pools of blue overhead,
and the smell of swollen summer window panes
can bring back the dead and all his remains.
What lavish thoughts of heaven’s unknown
make wispy wishes that you’ll come home.