It is ever truly quiet in here?
This place we have built for ourselves
Outside of who we used to be.
What is the meaning of escape, of freedom
When it is always on the verge of slipping away?
I have held a thousand moments in the safety of my chest
The sink into me, even as grief fights for dominance.
They sink into me like stones in water.
All at once until they reach the riverbed.
There is no method to its machinations.
I could spend a lifetime by a deathbed and I would not know how to grieve.
It simply happens
I do not control it and it does not control me
We sit beside each other in solemn silence.
Is it ever truly quiet in here?
There is not a moment when the voices in my mind still.
I am helplessly caught up in their tide.
Some voices, you see, are hard not to listen too
Harder still to forget.
I do not want to forget.
The world goes on.
No rest, no respite
There is no pause in this barrage of unending tragedy.
Grief is painful, yes.
It is hurtful and scary and vile.
No one ever told me grief was tiring.
I am, as always, the narrator.
The world falls apart and all I can do do is tell its story.
When I tell this story, I will tell it with tears.
The curtain of death is heavy
And we, foolish little things, we attribute colours to it
The stark black, the sombre white.
In reality, all it is is opaque.
You cannot see through it, you cannot try.
Is it ever truly quiet here?
It cannot be
Not when the sounds of mourning echoes.
A mother left behind
A volley of companions
A few too many memories.
Do you believe in peace, my friend?
I hope you do. I hope it’s true
I hope there is peace where you are now.
Go gently then, let the tide carry you with reverent hands
Let the shores be soft underneath you
Let the sun be warm.
And when you dream, let it not be quiet.
In life, as in death
Be raucous, be free.