The broad pen scrawl says not a thing,

Those even paced, low toned murmurs you waited for,

Chewed nails and stones for,

Leave you a map to no where.

Doors close,

Yet another passage blocked,

And 'its good- another thing you're not,

Another label trashed amongst old tests

And dusky nerves,

The stripping horns of frustration.

But now, ahead no new door gapes open,

Not even leering haunted eyes.

So you stand as always,

Shaky but there.

And fit those pieces back,

Reassemble, renew, move on.

There are tides, and tides will be.

We move with them,

And enjoy when they're low.