I cannot express if this is sorrow.
This emptiness can feel like all I am.
I no longer dream, not for a long time
Hope has long deserted that treacherous harbour.
My soul has become like a ghost town,
Light has departed, set sail from the shore.
I am hollow, I am a wasteland,
The twisted wreckage of an invisible child.
An orphan of time and tide, marooned
In the shadow of the meeting
Of that which might-have-been.
© 2020 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.
Made of sticks and stones 
This is the kind of poem that makes you just want to hug the poet and be a help to them. These words especially resound with me:
This emptiness can feel like all I am.
Hope has long deserted that treacherous harbour.
The twisted wreckage of an invisible child.
An orphan of time and tide
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Aah, thank you Denise. To be honest I did not realise I was feeling low until I wrote the opening line of the poem and then it was like a dam bursting as the emotion poured out. I actually wrote the first draft of this poem about a month ago, so I have moved beyond the worst of those feelings now. And I don’t think it was triggered by anything in particular beyond this crazy year we are all living through. But thank you much appreciated.
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I’m glad you’re feeling less emotional. I hope you’ve found some beneficial self-care, in addition to writing out your feeling.
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That’s a lovely poem. Thank you.
Gwen.
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Thank you Gwen
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