The Name We Call Grief Poem by Enoch Cole

THE NAME WE CALL GRIEF
Humans we loath writing home about,
The word call grief, I doubt,
If it's not a villian, known as grief.
The name we call grief,
It's the backwash of been like: 'I can't believe! '.
Of the existence of grief we may never array a belief,
Unless it unexpectedly stopover us and leave us with itself: grief.

If only I can imagine the situation of one wallowing in grief,
Like a sown seed fantasizing how a grown tree cope with too many burdens of a leaf.
He will correspond thus, while sighing with bitter Sweet relief:
Flipping hell, gosh darn! we used to share everything.
We used to coddle when nights get cold.
We did combined battles, dine together, play together, in hot and cold.
Discussed with each other our challenges, we were closest friends.
Why have you see me off to a vagabond end? why! ? .

Because we lose contact with those we love,
Due to sudden breath end or a repatriative end,
Repatriation of whatsoever.
We feel grave though we're still in earth.
We perceive the vacancy of those in our hearts.
Which is now lonesome and broken cos they are no more in our lives.
And grief have bumped in unwelcomed and unannounced,
Took advantage of our loss, by playing with our sad emotions.
And make love with our pains.
The name we call grief,
It's unexplainable, the aftermath of 'I can't believe! '.
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