Reach out, touch the chill void –
Holding out and hoping
For some kind of sign.
That will stop me from falling
Further into the dark
Between the future and the past.
To the place where the silence hesitates
And all my misdemeanours wait
For memory to recall.
For the sins and sacraments
Of my fragile belief in this reality
To begin again, to believe in me.
© 2020 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.
Made of sticks and stones 
Nice post, Frank. As a great artist once said:
We are stardust, we are golden, and we’ve got to get ourselves back to the garden.
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