There are slivers of
my heart
Which fly and soar high
Only to crash and bloodily weep
As they land,
On that stage
Where I will never be
Or that page
Where my words will never speak
Or the summer
lost from sight by tears of silly endeavours
Or the sweet little spring
in between the desert which dries faster
than I can run

Oh this emptiness
like between the vase and
the shrivelled flowers within
Dried now, a thing of past
but which once came
from someone as
a beautiful present.