Caring carves a tomb

My heart is full and wanting,
the touch of someone loved,
in word, or signal given;
to show he hears my voice.
And in the painful grieving,
to think of someone else,
who suffers more and greater;
just makes me feel much worse.
The lesson learned so long ago,
in talking to my child
and then I learned in my own way,
that reasons don't inspire.
The hurt makes echoed mockery
of all the sanguine words,
and spits upon the spiritual;
as sickening - absurd.
There is no true solution,
just wait, surrender slow,
through aching heart and brittle mind;
as love through pain is shown.
The powerlessness which settles,
the helpless place of wounds,
will force old memory to rise;
show caring carves a tomb.
If words and wanting cannot heal,
and wishes are no use,
then all that's left is feeling,
until it's felt - released.
Beyond the blood-laced weeping,
there will be found a time,
for suckling on God's comfort;
the liquid salve sublime.
The 'milk' of the Great Mother,
will flow from breasts as wine,
to wash away the bitter taste
from heart, from soul, from mind.
But draughts of deep-felt healing
cannot be drunk until,
the feelings have been honoured
and lived material.