Help I Cry

Help I cry to the no-one in my head
to God, the man who died
as a dream of you, of me,
of a calm summer sea
when reality is rain and dread.

Help I think to my sinking cells
and my cells say sorry
to you, for I cannot,
I must wait for the rain of self
to stop its helpless pelt.

For there is no help.
There is no help.
There is no help.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.