The word slips. A sound
that can resonate for a lifetime;
A diminished sense of purpose
is replenished in that solitary tone,
as the days spent in mourning
join everything else that has since expired.

The reason has long left
my train of thought
- woven by past joy and present longing
- which distorts and twists
until the word fits
comfortably in the empty room.

A canvas grazed once by colour
can never again be pure;
Such is the mind of a self-saboteur;
sensitive to all but myself.
Afraid to ask for help
to drown out that word

and chase my reprieve,
as the bare walls
which bear my regrets
pick me apart
piece by piece.