Isnt a dark hole

[thebroken8didit]

The grief isn't a dark hole that threatens to swallow
but a raging tide that rises so high I can't see the top,
a wave higher than the highest tsunami on record.
It captures me and lifts me higher and higher.
And then somehow it's no longer on the outside, but on the inside,
building and building
sweeping my heart away to somewhere,
escaping out my eyes in rivers of water,
crashing and roaring out of my mouth with groans and howls that would make someone,
if they heard, think I was dying.
I am alone and it's good to be alone with this wave,
with these howls that no one else can hear.
Can God hear?
If the tears are really caught in a bottle, how many bottles have I?
Are they all the same, or different colors for different things?
Are they the same shape, or different shapes,
perhaps the shape of a broken heart. These bottles,
where are they kept,
why do the tears not evaporate?
Why does God keep them,
for what purpose,
when in his silence he lets me grieve, year after year,
as if blind to my pain, deaf to my moans.
What purpose do they serve, these tears in a bottle?
Will he pour them over my grave,
to green the grass,
to moisten the soil,
will they form the river that takes my soul . . . Away to somewhere?
Where does the soul go that just cannot make it here in this world?
Does he really refuse it, deny it to heaven?
Rather than save my tears,
I wish he would take away some of the pain,
some of the grief that threatens to rise
. . . to carry me away to somewhere.