The crushing,
The Crippling pain,
I can see the path I need but the bars ahead of me just say no.

I step,
I talk,
I scream and walk through this torrid wood,
Made of one part memory,
And one part of fear.

The glear* in my heart hacks away,
Chopping not at the trees,
But at the writer here,

The endless edge of the forest,
Perpetually out of reach.

Breathe.
Close my eyes.
Walk blind.

When I look,


Am I there?

~Robert van Lingen