Grief is blue and grey,
black and white.
It is liquid, thick and clinging.
It breaks like waves and ebbs like tides,
drowning and tugging at your ankles.
It won't wash off, in tears or drink.
It fills.

Grief has no heights.
Only depths and depths.
Breadth and endurance,
breath and entrance.
There are no mountains in Grief,
but cliffs to be dashed from.

Grief has coastlines,
and fog.
Dead trees with empty arms,
sharp rocks unexpectedly.
Grief is empty, cold.

Grief is an island
in a vast, vast sea.