Poetry

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Hands groping
In the thickness of a night that suffocates.

Reaching for something
That can never seem to be found.

A weary, cumbersome spirit
Rattling around inside a self-made dillapitated house of the soul.

Does it really exist?

An echoing, hollow, fearful voice no earthly ear seems to hear.


To be loved, understood, accepted and enjoyed...
To really belong...
Through no particular merit other than being created by the same Creator.

A lonely, wandering ghost waiting
For an elusive rest...
For irrational fear to stop and unquenchable faith to start and to stay forever.

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