Grief

 

My ache is like a nettle wound;

          An irritating hair…

A barb of  pain that none can see,

          But yet it’s always there.

 

Everyday it festers,

          Still no doctor can remove

This cause of tender misery,

          That only time will soothe.

 

As with any injury

          That lingers to depart,

The risk of grave infections

          Damages the heart.

 

I could have listened to my friends

          And stayed out of the forest….

And never dared to touch the dream                                                       

That always stands before us.

 

I wait now for the fester

          To allow the wound to seep…

Eject the bitter thistle!

          Still on and on I weep.