My Grief 

I never cared to die
while blue skies taunted
my grief while reading 
a book in spring about 
autumn leaves. It is not 
true. I did not house such
thoughts. In this city
it makes no sense. Maybe
in the mountains or near 
the sea. But never in this 
place I call home. If it 
pleases you, I could die 
in a dream. If you must 
know, I want to live, and 
I want to be loved; even 
if this love only lasts till 
spring, the mother of all 
seasons. I want to live. 
I want to scream. I want 
my grief to end in spring. 
For the first time in my life, 
I want to see the light. 
I want to make it mine.