On Sorrows

Is it morbid to take such delight

In the title of Mary, Our Lady of Sorrows?

To spend a portion of each day

Trying to meditate on the Passion of our Lord?

As a Catholic, the “Memento Mori” scene

Almost becomes a passive catchphrase,

Not something most people would look twice at

Never think to challenge or probe the intention.

But can I really parse out the line

Between a pious regard for mortality

And the twisted, clawing consequence of grief,

A loss not fully processed or attended consciously.

The acquisition of the staring, plastic skull

That rests upon my bookshelf everyday

Was prompted less by artistic or religious desire,

While present, then by ardor for the character of Hamlet.

A wholly different perspective on mortality

Asking for release from strain, not hope.

Perhaps I see the flaws enough to circumnavigate,

Possible, indeed, to love while guiding towards a better path.

Though more the point is contemplating whether

This affinity for tragedy is a symptom of a deeper atrophy.

Does taking comfort in this solidarity of weeping eyes

Determine my reluctance to shed the ink-black mantel?

Or do you, my Queen, share with me a better way

One where pain and suffering unite with love and elevation?

You weep not for yourself but for your children

Yet that very act extends the grace of fortitude.

Here we glimpse the deeper meaning of grief,

How tears are shed not for themselves

Surrender, yes, but as a weapon against the dark,

Sacrificing your life and heart for the good of each of ours.