A candle is blown out by the breath of an almighty,
those illuminated by its light are plunged into darkness.
Wax hardens and grows cold,
like the heart,
of a grieving soul.
No sorrow too deep, no pain too bold.
Grief consumes the growth of a lover,
Stunted to an emotional impasse,
like a candle- never relighted.
The grief comes when it does, in waves and herds.
No hand in when it is remembered,
and when it forgets-
playing Russian roulette- we cry.
Powerless over who lives; who dies.
*an old poem of mine that I brushed up*
In loving memory of Zahid Chacho. Rest in Power.