Sometimes sadness knocks you about a wee bit,

tears well up and swim about in your eyes,

and blink-blinking to push them back

doesn’t work like it should.

Like it did before.

Mourning has never been a comfortable mantle,

setting itself about your shoulders,

and pushing to settle into your bones as

an ache that never leaves.

Like it tried before.

When fear dons a bedazzled crown

and steady fires that sadness to tears,

offering that mourning a cloak shield,

it’s bewildering yet familiar.

Like before.

The pain is comfort

and comfort is familiar.