ManicWorld Magazine

As oxen do, you drag your grief behind.
You are gutted, your sorrow rutted deep.
For years, you have maintained this endless grind,
The slightest thought, and you begin to weep. 
As phantoms do, you are leapt on from behind.
A photo spied, your heart once more, it breaks.
You pray this time the spectres might be kind.
But no, the pain is one exquisite ache.
Your anger deep, you cannot swim, you drown. 
Your guilt a swamp, you are but one, alone.
Your depression real, a weight so profound.
Your sadness, unlike any you have known. 
Love flows in and out, as a gentle breeze. 
Please, release the grief. Keep the memories.