My grief is not the woe of loss.

It’s all the love I have for him,
But cannot give him anymore.

It’s all the chess I’d learned for him
But cannot set the pieces for.

It’s all the books I’d bought for him
But cannot read aloud to bed.

It’s all the want to join him now,
But cannot, in the land of dead.

My grief is not the woe of loss.
My grief is woe of hoarded junk.