The Space

 
my gift to you
was wrapped so slow
years in the making
with worry and woe  

sit it on your night table
close to your head
watch it through the dark
through the sleep you so dread  

and at four and twenty
as the stillness spirals down
when you ghost into gloom
and your spirits numbly drown  

open it gently, softly,
quietly, and with care
then feel the bitter cold emptiness
and bleakly join me there

Eamonn O’Hanlon