Music and words
are the places I hide,
the solace of their sanctuary
with walls, behind which, to hide.
But whenever I now sing
those melodious old songs,
salty tears are all I find
where the words should belong.
It’s hard to break into
a favourite composition,
when upon your lips lies a tremble
that seeks to ruin your rendition.
My words; the ink still flowing free
and I treasure every page,
though the gap between the lines
is growing wider now, with age.
I sometimes feel I’m standing
upon a cold and clammy deck,
clinging to the rusting rail
at the stern of a sinking wreck.
A ghost ship driven hard
against a relentless, rolling swell,
by a careless captain who cannot hear
or ignores the warning bells.
Faint, familiar tunes I hear,
the sirens calling for me,
cast adrift on the misty memory
of a cruel and stormy sea.