GRIEF #1

Formed with the tip of the tongue

Against the back of the teeth, 

Spidery little words emerge,

Not even whispers from my mouth.

They couch me and seem to keep me

Afloat on a wicked, heaving sea

That is from horizon to horizon sorrow.

It tastes of endless salt.

[NOTE: This one honestly breaks too many rules for me to consider this a good poem. I might delete it...TBD]