It keeps threatening to consume me whole:

This dark night of my questionable soul.

Death, separation and heartbreak,

I dread to think of what else they take.

For now as the summer sun grows hot

And the very earth condemns our lot,

The fates conspire and repel all desire.

Mourning comes in the building of a pyre,

With rules and laws, medicines and food,

What should I beg for and to what good?

I cannot blame an evil eye, or sin,

For all this breaking and screaming within.

It seems hopeful to call it the forge of life

And believe in higher metaphors of strife.

I’d rather know less of grief than I must;

I’d rather seek anything else to trust.