Airways

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.