where the writers are

Fingers ache to touch the fire
A heart is pierced by frozen spire
echoes sound - a haunted choir
A soul cut off from it's desire

Muted, trapped, and beaten down
No way out has yet been found
Only distance all around
To this rock my soul is bound

Mimicking what is observed
In twisting patterns most absurd
As understanding is disturbed
What is said is not what's heard

Like treasure under glass enshrined
Passions dim and passions shine
Yet I cannot touch what there I find
I hear it only in my mind

I need to share your simple grace
the smile that plays upon your face
But the barricades remain in place...