by Nick Gisburne
There’s nothing, not a trace of what I had,
No sign of any hope I ever owned.
Perhaps I should I be grateful, gleeful, glad,
That fate decreed my death should be postponed.
Tonight’s deceitful dreams are not the first.
They fall around me, spinning from the sky.
Depraved, dishonest, one by one they burst.
By miracle, by chance, I do not die.
I find no love, no mercy, in the day.
The light, too bright, betrays the pain it brings.
A thousand colours, fading into grey,
Are shades to which my broken spirit clings.
I cannot solve the maze in which I’m thrown.
The fear of it defeats me. I’m alone.
