The cold sun streaming down


wrapped all around in winter wind

tears of ice upon my face

the cold sun streaming down

dresses me in flowing lace

a cry escapes upon my breath

my frosty lashes glisten

in the cold sun streaming down

there is no one there to listen

lonely is my frozen heart

alone always I stand

and the cold sun streaming down

falls pale upon my shadowed land




Words have lost their voices
they no longer speak for me
I thought they were my friends
I thought I could rely on them
but they have left me alone
I wander through blank pages
a tiny blot of ink
with no meaning
or purpose
and silenced


The connection between us
feels as fragile
as a spider’s web,
fine spun silk
that will break
under the weight
of falling autumn leaves
or drifts of winter snow
leaving me alone in the cold.
Should I stay
with this fearful uncertainty
or should I tip-toe away
feel the stretch and break
of the thread
and of my hopes?
Maybe my hopes were
always too frail
to survive
like snowflakes
that melt away
in morning sun.


I live behind a locked door

in self imposed exile,

my room is my world

and if I stretch out my arms

I can almost reach

from one bare wall to the other.

Within these familiar boundaries

my books, with their words that stretch

the confines of my phobic solitude,

occupy the small places

behind the chair

and under the table

and on the threadbare rug

in the centre

is just enough space to dance.



Today I cannot fly
my words all tumble to the ground
and lie there bleeding
shot down by stray
arrows of anger
that passed close enough by
to leave burning furrows of fear
across the blank page
where my thoughts hide

Today I cannot fly
the air is still
and suffocating
no breeze to lift me skyward
no draught to ripple my feathers
my wings are pinned to my back
held down by not knowing
if I am good enough.