Losing a child is akin to death,
a living death.
Romanticised through the ages as poignant and bitter-sweet
by those who would trivialise our pain.
It is neither.
It is a never ending silent scream of horror.
A soul searing hot iron that makes a home inside of us.
An emaciated sycophant that demands the sustenance of our tears.
A hopeless and quiet sob
in the dark corners of our minds,
where pain never sleeps or quiets.
And though it be a legacy of great love,
living proof that we have loved another more than we love ourselves.
It is a monster that we must fight,
and slay,
each and every morning.
Only to wake and do it again
and over again.
Until our very last breath.
