all that's not

It will not be rocked or sated or
mothered... how i hate it...
This thing of mine to keep, this
thing
It ever weeps

It never leaves, does not know
peace
It cries out lonely in its cot
It is not grief, is not named grief
For grief it settles to dead rot

It is griefs child, abandoned child,
and is a thing of mine to keep
It ever pines, it never sleeps
It ever pines for all that's not