Grief is a big black crow
Lodged in my throat
Ruffling it's feathers
Holding that note
That claws the harshest
As it tends to bloat
Outwards and downwards
Deep in my chest
Filling the airways
With solid cement
And heaving and listing
Up past my tongue
A shrill silent hum
That brims past my lips
And is drawn straight back in
Sharp shiny beak
Can't really speak.
