Grip

Grip with a dimmer vision

As-it watches me faint upon the scorn

With its icy hands - a taut grip

Brushes over me, freezes me to the bone;

Suddenly, I begin to slither down,

I am immersed in delirium – clutching,

Clutching for salvation, the grip glides up,

Abruptly, it refreezes my soul;

The writhing struggle to set my mind at ease

To somehow summon up the words

To tell you that the love and trust are gone;

The first moments are like the last moments

Held grip tight in time by second opinions

Now tossed into a cold, dark place that pains

Well-defined, immense – a compulsive course

Looking, searching for a glimmer of hope -

And then comes another icy blow  . . .

Copyright ã 2006 Tinka Boukes & Dennis O’Bell