Back

There is a sliver of light under the door.
I want to make haste,
but am unsure of the risks.
In the light I must see things as they are;
not from a manufactured “afar” or through a
self-induced fug.

Surely, though, the bright must be better than this,

an unending darkness, and what for?
Memories are scattered all over the floor and the table, burying me
and I’m not entirely able to surface.

Sometimes I think I’ve been swimming

to the shore from the sea but, if anything,
I find myself
on an empty peninsula.

On one side is destruction and on the other:

something I can’t quite see
through binoculars of grief.
From disbelief to sadness and near madness:
I’ve felt it.

In trying to find shelter I realise there is none

 that I can find; I must make it.

Shake and slap myself in the face to sort myself out.

Shout and scream and claw my way back.