Music and words are where I reside, the solace of their sanctuary with walls, behind which, to hide. But whenever I now sing those melodious old songs, salty tears are all I find where the words used to belong. It’s hard to break into a favourite composition, when upon your lips lies a tremble that seeks to ruin your rendition. My words; the ink still flowing free and I treasure every page, though the gap between the lines is growing wider now, with age. I sometimes feel I’m standing upon a cold and clammy deck, clinging to the rusting rail at the stern of a sinking wreck. A ghost ship driven hard against a relentless, rolling swell, by a careless captain who cannot hear or ignores the warning bells. Faint, familiar tunes I hear, the sirens calling for me, cast adrift on the misty memory of a cruel and stormy sea. * Written by Darren Scanlon, 2nd March 2015. Revised by Darren Scanlon, 8th January 2016. ©2016 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.