Grieving Grief

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I walk through sorrow like quiet rain,

softly passing through its terrain -

not untouched, nor turned to stone,

but carrying echoes of what I’ve known.


My heart is numb; no tears will fall,

a silent ache behind a wall.

No sorrow spills, no pain confessed,

just hollow quiet in my chest.


When grief is locked and will not rise,

it lingers dim behind my eyes.

I suffer still, though none can see,

and mourn the tears withheld from me.


To long for weeping - bitter, strange -

to grieve the grief that will not change.

A heavier burden I must bear:

the weight of absence everywhere.


Yet under skin grown cold and thin,

a muted pulse survives within -

a fragile ember, faint but true,

remembering what feeling knew.


For numbness is not death of flame,

only fire without a name.

And even walls I’ve learned to raise

may crack beneath these silent days.


Then grief may come, both soft and slow,

not as a wound but as a flow -

a quiet rain on waiting ground,

a gentle ache I almost found.


I grieve for grief, for all it takes,

for every heart it bends and breaks.

I hold it gently, understanding

it rises from love’s trembling hand.


For even sorrow, dark and brief,

longs to be held beyond belief.

And when at last my tears arrive,

I ache - and know that I’m alive.


So if your heart feels locked in stone,

and you must bear the ache alone,

know this: the numbness does not mean

your depths are empty or unseen.


For grief withheld is still love’s proof,

a silent, aching, tender truth.

And when you weep - or cannot grieve -

you are more human than you believe.

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