A Private Grief

Don’t you dare come near me
with your over-kind face,
your sympathy eyes,
or your sickening grace.

Don’t touch my arm
with a meaningful squeeze,
or press limp, moist palms
against mine, if you please.

Don’t speak in hushed tones,
you cumbersome cow!
Don’t cry at, for or with me.
Why are you crying now?

Don't give me PollyAnna,
namby pamby "Take Care";
Don't say how you're sorry,
that I'd be in your prayers.

Don't bake me any brownies
or cook me a stew.
Stop ringing my doorbell,
let your visits be few!

Don’t spout me your platitudes
that “Oh, Time will heal.”
Time don't heal nothin' -
but Death cheats and steals.

We just grow too weary
to keep up the grief,
but our rage never dies,
God is never reprieved.

Please do me a favour:
give saccharine a miss.
And explain if you dare -
how good comes from this?