It is not solely the things I see
that trifle my heart,
There are hands unheld,
a lack of ink at the tip of my quill.
There are lines unpenned, words unwritten,
and my thirsty soul,
yet to be smitten.
These letters stumble, dazed, entranced,
when there should be rhythm;
they should dance.
But no! There is chaos, there is havoc,
There is no peace, no drop of solace.
Missing is passion, hidden is bliss,
but there should be light,
instead of this…
I grant this one lone light, at least.
But the darkness presses;
it roars like a beast.
My bones tremor, my flesh turns cold,
my soul reaches out for another
Though it is just I; no one is there,
and I am laden,
I am scared.
That light shines on,
bleak but ablaze,
and somewhere inside I clutch to its faith.
There is darkness now,
and the beast wreaks terror,
but I will pull through.