He Who Still Roams

 I do not shed a single tear like

those I have descended into their

dirt graves.

My grief still walks the earth in

sunlit breaths.

Unbothered by what my voice

cracks of mine.

Still creating life joys

Still echoing in the wind with

smiles

Still finding stars to wish one

Yet no longer in reach.

That kind of turmoil does not

just plunge into vermin crusted

crud

It finds a way to infect

sizzle and splice its way into

the very marrow of my bones.

It rises like a smoky haze from 

a fire 

I didn't ask anyone to light.

You see I have sat by that fire

too long,

got burned, scorched but not 

killed.

It spins the pit spike and turns

me 

into something too tough to

chew.

I now talk to the wounded bark

on the trees.

Even I lean into the weariness

of the bark and

I flinch whenever his 

name

dances across the wind.

"Did he even feel anything when 

I was let go?"

No I wear the silence like blood -soaked,

putrid animal hides.

Not a pretty sight but it

holds me together.

The cruelty in the worst form, is:

he is still alive. He still loves.

Death has a finality, and you 

can 

dress yourselves in black and

mourn. 

But this...

This is like the open coffin but 

no body.

This is like the pyre but no

ashes to cling to.

It is funny how my heart still beats.

How I can still hear all the 

remembered

jokes and the way a smirk laid

my calms.

But I don't reach out.

Not only do I deeply desire to..

God only understands how I do,

But because of dignity..

The self alertness - the bite

of saying just a "goodbye" can 

be..

I just keep walking.

Through the muck - barefoot,

raw and real.

Soaking wet from tears,

poisoned rain 

I am always going forward.

See the ravens and the wolves

need

not to explain their paths.

The rivers and oceans don't tell

me 

their reasons why.

And there...

there the wildflower in me, still 

blooms

I whisper my prayers only 

meant

for ears laid low.

I once love him in my 

loudness

but now it is myself I cradle in

silence.

Not to drown but to be honest

and real

to the only one that matters.

That is grit. Raw. Hard.

And that is my choosing.

I can be soft, rooted and 

stationary. 

Even when parts of me fade

into a

whispered impression of a

breath.

I can still be, while I grieve for

he

who still roams.