Walk a mile

The Colours In Our Palette

Grief is a sneak thief, stealing colour,
dragging you into a world of black and grey,
destroying your hope.
It strikes without warning or pattern, just power.
It is inevitable,
when you face loss.

Doubt the truth, deny your loss,
but as your happiness fades, losing colour,
belief isn't necessary. Just inevitable.
Even as you witness the murky shades of grey,
you refuse to acknowledge death's power
and you cling desperately to hope.

The agony of giving up hope
leaves you railing at fate for your loss.
You need someone to blame, who has the power
to steal life, to destroy hope, to erase colour?
You see answers in black and white, no shades of grey,
and shout, arguing that it was not goddamned inevitable.

Begging and pleading won't change the inevitable,
but it affords one last shred of hope.
You'd surrender anything for a glimmer of light to brighten the grey,
you'd bargain anything against this loss,
but your murky world stays the same somber colour.
If only you had the power.

Depression is strong, agonising in its power,
frighteningly inevitable.
It slashes red across your monochrome canvas, adding colour,
but destroying hope.
It leaves you wallowing in your loss,
adrift in a sea of bloody grey.

Finally, life returns, a touch of green or gold, startling against the red and grey.
Time has its own power,
to soothe, to heal your loss.
The scarring is inevitable,
but healing brings a touch of hope,
and a return to the world of the living, a world of colour.

And grey will always be in our palette, in our world of colour,
but we have the power to heal, to hope.
Loss is not the end, just inevitable.


Sestina. Written 7 September 2014.