With pen, armed in my hand,
I force myself to write,
To fill the empty space,
So it becomes a comforting mess,
I writhe and squirm my way round it,
My brain does not think,
The hand writes all the same,
Like yoke oozing out of an egg,
In my confined bubble,
I look out the murky window,
And gaze restlessly,
Wonder where life has gone,
The winter air chills my heart,
Blood cells have turned to snow,
My gazing eyes are frozen stiff,
Looking out for life that was meant to be.
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