Sadness Doesn’t Stop At The Heart

It seeps into the shoulders, heavy

like wet sand

sliding slowly forward

until it crumbles away from the bank altogether

to slump in a fetal defeat.

Next it wraps its warm, sticky fingers

around the back of the neck -

like a chameleon on its branch - crawling, pulling,

gaining ground.

A slow progression.

Soon the forehead falls victim,

strapped back by zigzag pain

like caution tape

on a vacant land lot strewn with broken glass.

Then, deflated, it sinks to the wrists.

The tongue has to lay off its interpreters;

The hands are suddenly unemployed.

They don't know what to do.

Where to go next.

They are afraid, ashamed.

They hide

In pockets, in hair, and

the bags that eyes sometimes carry.

The eyes, accused

of shoplifting,

are forced to expose all they have.

Unfortunately today they were carrying the ocean.

It takes a long time to document all that water.

Security gets impatient,

eyelids always interrupting.

Still, it advances.

The feet receive it's lethal injection.

They say it's a painless way to go,

like falling asleep, really.

The feet have been so tired for so long..

they buy in.

The legs go numb in grief.

The belly hurls violent punches,

Reeling back,

Lunging;

A battle for breath.

Injuries toppling organs like evergreens,

forms face down in pools of warm, wet

red.

The one left standing has seen the lot.

And so, what was made to love

can now only grieve.

The saddest thing of all.