Grief is the virus
that surges and retreats
without cure.

It lingers dormant
in the dark recesses
of memory.

Tears are the vector
that spread its contagion
among us.

It seems I’ve beat it
then there’s a welling up
in my throat.

I feel the tremor
and then a convulsion
that chokes me.

There is something sharp
tugging like a barbed hook
of regret.

I can’t escape when
every cell remembers
how things were.

At some point I will let go

This entry was posted on Wednesday, January 13th, 2010 at 12:28 am and is filed under Natalie Grace. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.