Grief stalks adagio through your fragile life,
Saps your strength, invades every body cell,
Cleaves your heart in two with his butcher knife,
Abandons your soul in a living hell.
A vicious, scheming, well-paid assassin,
Precision guides him around your tortured mind.
An uninvited stranger within,
The proverb was wrong—it's hate that is blind.
For grief doesn't care how deeply he hurts
Or who he preys upon. Without pausing,
Your moods are cruelly ruled by an expert
Who knows your weaknesses, loves what he's causing.
And I don't understand why. When you're low,
Grief clings limpet-like and never lets go.

Copyright © 2002 Patricia Staples. All rights reserved.

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