Grief is a vulture silently circling,
Circling in the air,
Then swooping down at life’s lowest ebb
To pick the bones of our despair,
But those pickings are slim
When you’ve become frail and thin,
Caught up in the turmoil of sadness,
And all around you the well wishers spin
On a roulette wheel of madness,
Grief is a mantis
Quietly and mindlessly engulfing its prey,
Siphoning out the life force
As you try to struggle away,
But that struggle seems futile
When all that’ll be left is dry bone,
And only years of frayed memories to clutch
After the one you’ve loved has gone.
Diane Scantlebury
