Sometimes words write themselves from a place deep in my heart.
“Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak
whispers the o’er-fraught heart, and bids it break.” -Shakespeare
Grief filled the rooms of our now silent home,
boxes full awaited me, long unseen by eyes so blue.
Loss made strangers have her hair, her smell, her laugh,
and waited in the aisles hidden as food she loved no more.
And yet I am thankful for it, the grief,
a certain fondness have I for that pain.
For because of it I shall never doubt my love for her,
and of my strength to carry on I need no other proof.
And if you have such a loss as I… a knowing comfort I can give.
I will not ever lose this pain, the anger likely will linger long, the sorrow deep.
Yet I will not wear it by my choice,
or let it from me my future keep.
By Christ, I call upon her names,
my wife, my love, my Lady Lyn.
Until we meet again.
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Inspired by Shakespeare’s Macbeth:
“Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form;
Then, have I reason to be fond of grief?
Fare you well: had you such a loss as I,
I could give better comfort than you do.
I will not keep this form upon my head,
When there is such disorder in my wit.
O Lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son!
My life, my joy, my food, my all the world!
My widow-comfort, and my sorrows’ cure!”