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Funeral Song, I Wish I Could Sing

The sorrow of a soul cannot be rushed,
no more than the sun can be cajoled
to early rise.
When a lover passes on,
Grief takes a moment
to open her arms,
embrace you
like a mother
with a child,
waking you slowly.
Grief visits you in waves,
washes you in clouds of memory,
each one shining and alone,
passing by as if you dreamed them.
A year and a half is the end of the sad story,
all psychiatrists say -  by then
it's nearly over and Grief no longer
visits everyday.
Ah, you are not crazy if you still mourn -
the sun will rise,
this too shall pass,
Grief does move on.

20 Sep 11

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good advice, too many commas, all in all i thought it was a kind and smooth poem, good job :)
 — Rss233