Grief

Grief, that alien outcast, pounces on you

as you prowl around the dripping, malodorous

backyard of the darkened house, half hidden

from view on the far side of the barren slope,

And digs its fangs into your throat.

Grief lies in wait, crouches in the empty hallways,

the twisting helical corridors, flowing into and

Out of each other, through half sleep and

one-tenth wakefulness. It is a dream so real,

you can almost touch the junk-filled sink, 

The cracked bathtub corroded with rust,

the broken tiles, the musty air creeping up your neck.

Grief is at your foot, as it kicks this broken chair,

pushes that half-closed door – but it is stuck.

Grief eggs you on to push further till

The shrouded corpse propped up behind it

falls on its side to the floor with a dull

Thud. And that is just about when

Grief crashes you awake, sinks its teeth

Into your throat and rips it out.