The den

I have lost the words when

I saw the icon to the left. I

think I lost myself when I

decided to only write due

to stress. I'm writing due

to stress. I am in pain for

my age. I am filled with

dread and dispair. I am

keen on getting at it

again. Not today. I

might do it again,

if things go my

way. A way.

Away. For real.

Too real. Surreal.

Pathetic lay of words.

Empty shell of a hurling

little girl. How did the days

go by? How did the bay become

so pale? Beyond the sea, I prayed for

the morning. But, I never went to sleep.

Watched the night lurk, crawl then creep.

Writing to unload a sea swollen by mistake

in fury of a bay, in silence of a pray, in mercy

of a forgotten day.