A voice lingers somewhere beyond the fog,

Beyond the darkness and the mist,

Muted, strained, remote,

Familiar yet alien:

An echo of storms

Seeking to compose melody from turmoil;

Weathered, despairing yet indignant,

Urgent and woven from pain,

Like a cry of fear

A faint longing for rescue, release, relief

Which rails and reverberates like a lament

Rehearsed yet unscripted

Like it does not know what is lost

Nor what there is to be found

Hollowed and sonorous like thunder

Which expects no response

And clatters without company of lightning

Without rhythm or answer

Without harmony

But cries because it must,

Strident in its grace,

Fragmented, wrenched through the maw of guilt

Almost loud enough to placate the baying

But too quiet to be heard

As if an elegy, a suspended knell, of resignation

A tribute to demons

Conducted through this ritual of resurrection

As if joy is a breath after resuscitation

That cannot be caught

As we clutch to the crystalline, piercing force

Of stars and moonlight

Riven by the tremors of striving to remember

How to love and resist

Dissonant with the uncertainty of not knowing

Whether this song

Ever had any resonance at all

Or whether it ever will

Whether it can orchestrate the rhapsody

We traced out in sparks of lightning

To break this reciting

Of lines we have no faith in –

Whether we can liberate ourselves from these illusions

This smouldering

And finally, honestly, recklessly