Angry Grief

Like Job sitting in ashes
in a pit no painter ever portrayed,
peering into a realm
as black and empty
as holes in a marble bust,
here where shadow, not light,
poured through fresh wounds
playing the raw strings
of her angry grief,
she opened the door
and showed you her grief,
an unending pain,
a pulsing black stupor
as though lost upon vast seas.

You offer the comforts
of your faith, long ago lost,
a net cast into her abyss
to escape the veil of tears.

Better a metal shell to wrap her,
to guard her mourner’s grief.
Brief interludes of reason
seem stolen by that thief.

As dawn traces gray lines
through tightly drawn blinds,
light glimmers faintly
through tiny cracks.
Yet everything human
goes and never comes back.