Weight

Despair - 

low grade, worming, 

not fatal:

A relentless sense of loss

shadowed behind the heart.

Something I've become

accustomed to - 

heaviness, a sighing in the veins,

an immutability lost to articulation

keeping me apart.

The mass effect of it,

a petrification, a pulling nervosa 

that harries each landscape.

This quiet, coiled up grief

that stays, still weighs

despite the passing of years, the

distance from one life and 

inevitably, this other.

I am away,

withdrawn.

But I will,

I have decided,

I will plod towards

the quivering murmurations of light.

I will inhale

emanations of loamy earth.

I will heave my way forward

until I disappear beneath myself

or lift up, like a heron from the field,

into the crumbling grey mist.

- kc