My notes are like a carriageway, compressed of idle thoughts twirling
Through a selection, a collection of
Neverending, succeeding realisations
That pinpoint to one end: failure.
And it continues in this pattern, nattering
Inside my ear, and outside, clutching to
An outside exhibition that prohibits me
From displaying my cares and failings
Sharing too many notions.
Retiring from the spotlight, I shyily standby
A light that has been yearning for a burning
Temptation that frees me from this station
To Another page, where the words yet unwritten, will listen. I think
Eoghan Lyng is an Irish man and sometime writer. He lives in Glasgow, having written from the perspective from Cork, Madrid and Prague. He has written for OutlawPoetry, VadaMagazine and FromTheLighthouse.