Futility

A poem unlike my other works

I don’t look it, but I’ve been cursed with a grief
That shields me even from life’s finest delicacies
Leaving me longing for a mere taste
Of the inner peace which most find so easily.
With this grief, I become inflamed with heat
Rivaling the brightest of suns in our vast universe
And a hatred for a brother, piercing my heart,
With a coldness not found on Earth
If you read these words, and are able to fathom
The concepts of which I describe my grief,
You still know nothing
Of the pain you have poured upon me
Because mine is a grief, and a love
That would leave Achelois and Aphrodite baffled
Because mine is a grief that renders time itself
As incompetent and incapable as man
And mine is love that no words could obscure
In an attempt to make it a reality