Tearing at my veil with fingers
that will never age.
Rending holes in falls of gossamer,
thinner than the finest tulle;
but steadfast, as a wall with oaken door
that swung one way, cutting off goodbye.
Or so I thought.
My mind froze with the cold wind
blowing through; cracking, falling into
little pieces on the floor,
among the dusty remnants of ideas.
I cannot grasp with fingers naked, bloody,
any thoughts in all the disarray.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology