The relentless barbs on the circle of endless grief sting and bite and chant, “When, oh when?” Oh, what hopeless fools we become when we believe only that which we can touch and see. There must be more…or else…whatever are we waiting for? Some live in ignorance of the true sting of grief. An acquaintance dies and they assume they are experts on grief. Hope…it dies. Grief…it never dies; nor does love. The intricate web of existence forever intertwines love and grief. Regardless of what I do in waking state, there, in the hidden recesses of my soul, a tiny voice reminds me that I was once loved. It also whispers that I will never be loved that way again. And as I drift into slumber tight in the cold embrace of misery, it whispers, “Soon, very soon.” All the while, the relentless barbs sting and bite and chant, “When, when, oh when?” And my soul cries out, “Please, please,” but no one hears the desperate silent cries of the bereaved.