Her Name is Grief.

Death has a wife,
Her name is Grief.
Death is a simple fellow.
He wears dark suits;
clean, crisp, and tailor-cut.
Grief dresses in bright colors;
She is a people-pleasing person.
She always holds two baskets:
Her right hand holds Comfort,
Her left hand holds Release.
But over one eye-socket, she wear a patch.
Death has taken this eye
So Grief follows him everywhere.
She does not mind.
Grief is the mother to many children.
Her gentle hands are daggers,
Cutting deeper into every wound.
She cleans out the pus and grit.
Grief slowly scoops out the pain.
She stays until her work is complete.
Do not deny her, for she will return.
Death has a wife,
Her name is Grief.