What is saddest about grief is that it fades,
like memories whose colours drain away and sharp lines blur.
The once life-threatening wound of grief gradually heals.
Some deny this, wanting to keep their injury as intact
as their loved one's bedroom. They pick at scabs,
preferring the poignant pain to numb insensibility,
guarding their wound as a badge of honour.
Yet over time the raw flesh seals;
the scar can be touched without wincing.
But the shrine created for their loved one
has become more important than its dedication.
After all the turmoil, it must not spoil.
Distraught, they cannot put aside the thought
that to stop grieving is to be disloyal.