Grief moves through time at its own pace

It can never be hurried along

This living and breathing embodiment 

This dirge, this lament, this sad song 

With its coat stitched with the blackest of cotton

And the melancholy aura it brings

It will lead us down paths forged from sorrow

Where it wounds, where it burns, where it stings 

But to wish for its parting would be pointless 

It will temper, from when it was made

From an unforgiving and insufferable firestorm

To a tolerable and bearable shade

John Regan, 2025.