The Gargoyle

a poem about grief

My grief is a deep, slow burn;
Like snow it sifts, it shifts the
softly glowing remembrance
of two before one until the
memory is drowned beneath
the stinging, aching effort
of the stiffly-beating heart.

Only one part is left open,
not yet catatonic, not rigid.
It came in your absence;
a sneering, snuffling thing
that I hear dragging useless legs
by arthritic, smoky fingers,
creeping and jeering.

It coils around my body,
embracing and infecting –
but I cannot deny it.
The wicked gargoyle face
is a mockery of my own;
I suffocate beneath it, but gladly:
for it is my companion, now.