Grief

My Grief is a clockwork.

Rusted truths

And half-hearted denials at 1am

It oscillates between my breathing cubicles.

On a regular Monday morning

I slaughter time

And eat temperament

Applied on cerebral mechanism, for breakfast

I pray do-overs

Between sandwich bites.

The next thing I do

Is check my mailbox for a letter

From the Elysian Fields.

I'm Tartarus

Diagnosed with guilt

Baking chronic self-punishment

That smells of remedy.

On Afternoons

I read articles

That do not talk of mental health

That do not talk about

'How to overcome soul-sucking withdrawals'

But stifling theories on

'How to include Systemic Corrosion of the Heart in your daily schedule'.

The neighbours murmur aloud

/ Her mercury is in retrograde.

Anyday now, she'll tear down Smilax thorns./

I listen to them.

I agree with them.

I'm ventilation

That naps on a bed made of swords

The ones that went ramming

Through toasty eyes

And glittery hearts.

I've approached Suffocation by the night.

I invite it over for a cup of tea

That I promise to prepare with leaves

From my garden of pity and inadequacy.

I'm amber clouds

Surrounding Diana,

Preaching reality to my subconscious

Making an onslaught

On self-loathing.

The looted hive in my backyard

Is stranded on the concrete of demise

Bees droning a farewell song to it

While I forage

Through animal behavioural science

For the rearmost analog signal.

I'm quick in remaking homes

Out of last meets

And terminal smiles.

I'm an Oxymoron

Quaffing wisdom

With a wounded metabolism