by Nick Gisburne
So quiet, in the corners of her mind
The places where no others ever go
They try, but somehow never seem to find
The mystery she hides from them, below
A carpet of deceit conceals the truth
She drags it, rolls it, slithers down the stairs
At one with old obsessions from her youth
Remembering that no one really cares
A silent space, an emptiness inside
No ornament, no shape, no light, no thing
A shelter, where she vanishes, to hide
A place where love and laughter do not sing
The everlasting darkness and the cold
More precious to her sanity than gold
