Aftermath Poem by Jean Renwick

To write the saga of a dying soul
one must feel it, deep
in the hollowness of the body.
That which causes anguish, joy, detachment and passion
like a separate entity with a life of its own
lying concealed, hovering
only to resurface at any time, any place.
The longing for the departed never disappears, but when
least expected it returns to cripple
if only for a fleeting moment,
or perhaps the sinking, almost guilty feeling
pervades an entire day.

No wonder death brings a broken heart to the bereaved.
The dual-flamed fire of love and destruction is sure of its mark.
It doesn’t matter what is believed about life after death,
still the ever-present emptiness,
as though something has been wrenched
from one’s very insides
never to be whole again.
Subsequent relationships are never fulfilled.
Always the lack of connection, a grasping
for something just beyond capture.
A prolonged sense of yearning and a fear
of being discovered in a state of unchecked grief.

A fear too, of growing away from the turmoil,
of returning to solid ground.
Memories rarely seem adequate to represent
how much devotion was given and received.
So within, quietly, during the increasing space between responses,
the search continues, unrelenting because the absence effects everything, forever.
Try to deny it, acknowledge then try to
shake free of it, but the disenchantment is there.
That bundle of emotions like an amulet around the neck
resting, swaying or perhaps forcing itself to the surface
to overcome the external defences and clamour for attention.

Thus, grief takes hold with a grip of steel,
a vampire-like companion until
surviving is impossible without it.
How is a death kept an isolated incident?
An event so devastating, that it’s influence changes a life,
All attitudes and reactions to life, irreparably.
Does love have the courage to face this entity
that no-one can quite understand, because of the
inner sadness and that far away separateness
which becomes one’s very definition, the explanation for all that is.
The strength of a dying soul to cling to tangible routines
of the body ensures the saga continues.