Unentered submission for Queen mother memorial prize

writing a poem is like catching air in a net,
 I cannot reach into the ocean of my thoughts today, 
I cannot see the colours in our ever changing sky.

You talk in hope of speaking, but only noise comes.
You look in hope of seeing, but all is blur,
you joke in hope of laughter. Blood from a stone.

There is no point in trying to find out why,
You try to breathe but all you muster are sighs,
And standing in a crowd you know that you’re alone.