Sorrow

Sorrow is cathartic,
It cleanses and purifies,
Frees the soul from chains
Of happiness,
Burnishes it to perfection,
It is the meaning of life,
Its eternal truth,
Or so it is said.

My sorrow is none of these,
It is instead,
A dense impermeable fog,
A nameless weight on my chest,
A cold steel in my soul,
A mercenary bullet imploding in my being,
A diamond which etches surrealistic patterns
On my existence, brittle as glass,
A whore which clings to me,
Like the stench to a sewage drain.

Joys are islands, few and far between,
Their isolation relieved only
By this river of sorrow that connects,
Each lonely island, and imparts to them,
An illusion of continuity,
Islands that erode a little further,
With each passing wave that laps
On their shores, bringing oblivion
A little nearer with each passing breath