Sorrow

Sorrow, how she came to me, quietly and without announcement
Not as a tempest, neither as shouts, nor even an ancient echo
Nay, ’twas but a whisper that slipped silently beneath the door
No recognition, not a face, nor form that I could gather
Simply a feeling, a long-forgotten chill of something missing
And pain, something dull, like an ache of an unhealed injury
Sorrow spoke to me, dictating in the language of loss
Each word a weight, piling onto my wounds, each pause another cut
She asked no questions, nor did she offer me comfort
My voice unable to reply to the raw and unrelenting truth
And now, my heart too weary to resist, I simply listened
Memories of scenarios long ago, those were the times I ran
Often drowning myself in useless activities, noise and thought
Back then I pretended that the hollow in my chest was normal
Perhaps it was just a passing thing, and by morning forgotten
But no, not even in my wildest dreams could that be a truth
For sorrow has patience, it waits for the silence
It finds you when the energy is bad, and the candles burn low
How those memories feel like a curse you can’t lift
Sorrow is the great teacher, the giver of lessons and sharpness
And true, it whispered that love is not always a gentle thing
For those of us who feel deeply must also suffer deeply
And that grief is simply love with nowhere to go
I have traced its fingerprints, on the empty glasses
Soap suds soft upon my hand as I turned it around and around
Lost was I in a thought with no capture point nor ending
A circle that arrived without the one I wished beside me
Now, I’m held in the icy grip, that found within its darkness
Sorrow, for all its cruelty is honest, and on occasion merciful
It does not lie, nor does it fade when ignored, only waits for another
Another time, another place, shaping me into something different
Measured purpose seems more fragile, surroundings more human
Certain that now, more capable of compassion than ever before
But still holding onto the roughness of the edges
Now, when she visits, we sit together in the quiet
No longer my enemy, no longer the damage bearer
But now as proof that I have lived, and proof that I still can love
And that my heart still remembers how to break…

Additional Reading

R.J. (Ralph) Schwartz is an American poet, author, website owner, and online publisher. His writing spans several poetry collections—ranging from spiritual and romantic to fear-driven explorations—and even extends into science fiction. Notable works include:

• Hope – Inspirational and Spiritual Poetry

• Things That Go Bump in the Night – Poetry of Fear and Fright

• The Lover’s Thread – Poetry for Couples

• Poetry of the Human Condition – The Ups and Downs of Modern Living

• The Secrets of the Moon (a sci-fi novel co-authored with his son Sebastian J. Schwartz)

Schwartz’s work is described as purposefully wordy, richly descriptive, and thematically grounded in nature, romance, antiquity, and forgotten histories. He writes regularly on platforms he manages, including The Creative Exiles, a collaborative venue for writers, and The Gypsy Thread, which delves into offbeat histories, pagan lore, and poetry.

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R J Schwartz

I write about everything and sometimes nothing at all.I'm fascinated by old things, rusty things, abandoned places, or anywhere that a secret might be unearthed.I'm passionate about history and many of my pieces are anchored in one concept of time or another.I've always been a writer, dating back to my youth, but the last decade has been a time of growth for me.I'm continually pushing the limitations of vocabulary, syntax, and descriptive phrasing.

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