it may burst
amongst all the pretty
fields of blooms
a grief so consuming
it turns the skies gray
the clouds dark
and full of rain
and my hands that were sure
and a heart that could cure
turn feeble and weak
for the want of secure
oh i hear the distant roars
of the upcoming storm
and those who saw,
have run away in alarm
and the first stinging nettles
hit my face
because the first wave of grief
has set its pace
and i am much too overcome
i am undone
for i was not made to sustain
this bleakness
this helplessness
and all the pain
- les’nspired
