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Grief
December 15, 2020
If you let it get a hold of you,
It will never let you go.
It’s grip is like the Angel of Death’s,
only melancholy can follow.
Sometimes you can escape it,
But only for a little while,
Until it rears its head again
And takes away that smile.
There’s comfort in knowing it goes on holiday,
But where we’ll never know.
It mustn’t go somewhere sunny
Because it always brings back snow.
You yearn for the day it brings back sun,
But for now you know,
That happiness isn’t for everyone,
And there isn’t gold at the end of every rainbow.
© Anonymous
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