Music and words

are the places I hide,

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 should 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 8th January 2016.

©2016 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.


14 Comments Add yours

  1. This so much how I feel at times. It was like you you were speaking directly to my heart. Wonderful, Darren. 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thanks so much, Elizabeth.

      Liked by 1 person

  2. gauravbarot says:


    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thanks my friend.


  3. GP Cox says:

    This is excellent!!

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Birdine Louis Remaley Jr says:

    An excellent read…Mr. Scanlon guides you through this poem from the very first line…

    Liked by 1 person

  5. That’s just it, isn’t it? We are all living on borrowed time, and soon, we will all crumble into dust, rendering silent our powerful voices. I share your pain. Great work, by the way. You are an incredibly gifted poet.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you very much. 🙂


  6. Rita says:

    Relate to this deeply! Love this, Darren

    Liked by 1 person

  7. hlynnbrick says:

    What a beautiful poem. It’s imagery brings me to a ship with fog and turbulent waters. I also feel the melancholy in tone and almost feel as if this is addressing writers’ block. When the Sirens come, they transfix the writer into a trance-like state. Exquisite poem!

    Liked by 3 people

    1. Thank you very much.


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