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Grief goes on

Grief goes on
            in disarray
along arteries clotted
            with dried weeds
where still appear
surprising flowers

Grief goes on
trailing mud skirts
            of ill wind
past roadside ditches
thick with cast-off
of unfinished

--what has been
    or might have been.

Of course the hope is always that a poem can speak for itself, and the last few lines especially need to make an impact, find their way home, and not leave you hanging out on 3rd base at the end of the inning. Apologies aside, I think I can clarify what I was about. The poem is really about a state of mind that can lead to squalor.

Grief is a truck speeding down a highway. How? I'm not talking about a simple emotion, but a reaction to an emotion, a distress pattern.The pattern of locking it all up and plowing ahead. Grief is closed and half-blind, but it's not static; it has mass and trajectory. It seems to have a destination, a purpose, but it has locked away its true purpose, and can't see the promise all around, so its only destination is death: the end of the line. Its cold cargo--chicken hearts on ice, being love and the fear of it; and unspilled guts, being closed communication, truth untold. This may be a good way to transport perishable goods, but not the best way to live one's life. Squalor is one result--litter, cast-off packages of unfinished business--of this blindness and frozen motivation. My cold cargo suggest the cause, and also the antidote. Open up, be willing to love and tell the truth. Bless