Wax Poetic by Julia Johnson

There’s a sanctity that follows

The saddest news you could ever hear

That every action that follows

Should be ceremonial

And sacred

And intentional

And honest

And beautiful

That every interaction

Should be meaningful

And enhancing

And evocative

And profound

And dutiful.

Even so

The great world spins.

Can you picture the glamour

Of the heaviest sigh

From a beautiful young widow 

Laying In a dark velvet robe

That’s the grief whose hands 

I’d like to grasp 

A plea before falling

Pulling me back from the edge

I know I was meant to hold sadness

For others and myself

I find comfort in its familiar grip

The same comfort I felt when

I knew I needed to go back on my meds

When I looked out the window

And wanted to steep myself in the inky slurry

Let it hold me and slip in all around me.

That’s the grief whose hands

I’d like to hold

Like a trusted adult who will look both ways before

Crossing for the both of us

That’s not the grief whose hands

I get to clasp

Instead it’s a beckoning finger curl

Pulling me away from the glamorous day

That’s not the grief whose hands

I get to choose

And the great world spins

And the great world spins.