Four blades of lead line this fine sheet of crystal
fitting it into the baulking bastion that I call a home.
Without company and webbed by solitude, the division
between the plane of reality and sanctuary binds me
to a blackness, bleaker and colder than a void.

The decay of an exalted life is so pungent
that it supplants the strongest of men.
Forgotten, ignored, I agonise over the loss of light, hope – human contact.
Confused and broken, I bicker bitterly over what was, what could have been
what will and what will never come to pass in the morbidly disfigured carcass
I call life.




Figures standing still,
crack, decay, crumble –
under the weight of endless time.

Frozen on a winding  road
bereft of life, laughter and love
with the Dark ever creeping.

A colourless, speckled visage,
marred by a sullen silhouette
asphyxiated by forlorn hope.