A frayed tendril of pathetic string,
Run taught above my head.
A blade of dismay, terror, fear;
Standing in perfect contrast to everything I want to be.

'Tis nought more than a fickle thing,
Not a feeling to be felt or a word to be said,
Yet it continues to hinder me here.
It's the waiting doom that awaits all goodwill I'd set free.

A twang of snapped twine,
Again and again and again and again,
It all falls down yet remains in place;
Tying up it's own phantom madness to strike deep within me.

Unpredictable, I was feeling fine,
'Till the blade deemed to split me in twain,
And once again tears stream down my face.
Drowning in a selfish torrent of fog through which I cannot see.