Friday, October 2, 2015

I Didn't Know

When you died, I didn’t know the pain could be this searing, like a hot blaze burning my soul.

That the depth of despair would be this jagged, like a razor sharp abyss or a bottomless hole.

That the sorrow would be this unspeakable, like an abandoned ballad void of all lyric.

That my family could recover from loss so unbearable, it was simply too hysteric.

I didn’t know that the sorrow would leave me exhausted, without any reserve.

That the world could be blind to my suffering, too uncomfortable to observe.

That it was capable of shattering my world so completely out of the blue.

That the fog was this thick, coating my life like dense viscous glue.

When you died, I didn’t know my heart would break open to bleed like a wound.

That the grief dance was this ugly, like two left feet cemented in gloom.

That I could survive a journey without purpose in view.

That my heart would know smiles and laughter not fake or askew.

I didn’t know that I would embrace a sunrise in all its glory every tomorrow.

Or that my heart would hold joy at the same time as sorrow.

When you died, I didn’t know that your death would propel me into a life full of gratitude and care.

That your death would be this heartbreaking, and compassion for others would be my repair.

Now I know.