Looking ahead I can make out sad shapes -
Demented potters’ mud-mould mockery,
Tumbling into darkness’ unbounded time,
Edgy and sharp like shattered crockery.
I see them best when my heart breaks open
And bleeds along the lines of knifepoint scars.
It is as if the blood that fuels my sight
Surges and bids me gaze on sleaze bazaars.
There were years when the lights I saw ahead
Dazzled and shone with love and faith and hope;
Now not even the greatest of these three
Safeguards my soul from sickness’ deathly slope.
And so I stare wide-eyed and tread the scree,
Feeling my feet slide out from under me.