Death grips like no other
Loss. It burns a hole
To the core of the soul.
The mind grasps for retreating
Life, echoes that swirl
Along the surface of the gulf,
An ever widening gulf
between ever and after.
You run crying through
Corridors of the past,
Calling, searching
For something to carry
Back into the present,
Some magic talisman that will
Cross over into the flesh.
The weight of forever
Presses against your chest.
Unable to breathe,
The ache in the heart swells,
Consumes, then seeks escape
Into the sweet pocket of shock
Where lack of feeling encases
The gaping wound, where mind
And limbs go through the motions.
And there you drift, and wait
Until it’s safe to touch the pain again.
Copyright © 2002 Pam Patterson
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