I fell into a dark place of difficulty,
Prickles and thorns were uncomfortably everywhere,
and all the glasses were half-empty.
I didn't want what I could have
and I couldn't have what I wanted.

My pencil lay idle in my hand
as I looked blankly at the paper.
I shuffled my feet and looked across the garden.
Pleasant.
The deep chimes rang three soft notes,
leaving me unmoved.
So I stay in glum half-animation,
listening for what needs to be said.
Finding no response.
What is this hollowness that has no voice
but cries mutely for form?

With my pencil, I wait, for it seems
that something needs saying.
Fragments of thoughts trail across the surface
and leave no trace.
This heavy formlessness eludes me.
Neither happy nor unhappy, far from joy or despair,
I am caught in bland, dull unknowing.

A whispered memory-line from the Messiah
leaves an eddy in the current --
'Comfort me', it says. The ripple repeats
and swells to a fragile pattern,
'Comfort me, bring me your consolation.'
My pencil moves tentatively
and I have found what needs to be said.