Grief is a
thief
you have
urged
to take
you away
but with
your own
key locks
you,
wet with
tears,
inside
your musty
woolen
closet and
turns out
the light.
Dark in
your trap
shared
with moths
you cry
long past dry
and choke
on all why.
When you
know it’s
time (and
you will):
burst
the closet
open
into a
room,
burst
the room
open
into a
sky,
settle for
no moons,
pray past
all suns,
inhale
from Cosmos.
Not earth
are you
but the
damp wick
of a
future shining.
Strike
your match
and light the way.
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