A Poetry Cure

I spin poems,
as if they will heal me.
Perhaps they dry my tears for now,
but no amount of pretty words will change the future 
where graveyards swim in my vision.
My whole world will smell like embalming fluid
and a sickeningly sweet summer breeze
that no longer holds any magic. 
A shell of myself, primed to lose 
everything I haven’t already lost.
My family and I, we are all equally susceptible to fate, 
circumstances, 
or the omnipotence of a multitude of possible deities.
No amount of craft or finesse with perfected sentences
will prepare me for the army 
that is waiting to swoop in
and take out my defenses.