Please consider my poor renderings...

Grief

Grief rests upon my pillow
sleepless, shag-haired,
air-staring, unclad,
ripe mad with daring.
It wants me.

So near my face it leans,
poring into my
lost precision,
my soul's incision,
my missionlessness.
It knows me well, I guess.
It never rests.
Its raspy breath breathes restless.
It wants no rest, ever
and never lets me sleep.
It keeps me close,
strokes me, chokes me
in dark ecstasy.
Burns me with fatigue,
rends me senseless,
defenseless, thus, I yield.

Against Grief,
there is no shield,
no sanctuary,
no flowerly field
of peace.

Yet, Grief is a stalwart companion,
ever near,
even kind in its cruelty.
At least
it does not die,
ask why and sigh.
Grief doesn't even cry.
Wordless and strong,
it never remembers
or even dreams.
Grief is the perfect lover
in life's imperfect scheme.

Hollow, resolute
I purse my lips, bereft.
You, my love, are dead
and Grief is all that's left.
Though it be ever cold,
at least,
it has a substance
I can hold.

And loneliness is worse
than Grief, I'm told.

Jack