Emptiness is a relative being
It sits within each
A ******* child born of perception
And floats around somewhere in mocking silence
Between void and avoid

Emptiness cannot be labeled
You can not put a name
On cannibalized shells
But place a light on the inside
And give darkness life
And emptiness can no longer scream

To put it quite simply; it hurts.

Her eyes shine like undisturbed dew drops
hovering at the gentle fingertips of young moss
on the northern bark of a white cedar tree
under a lazy morning sun.

Spear points of obsidian pierce the disc:
banished from the core of a volcano
scorched by a molten heart
and choking on onyx soot.

The dawn warmth filters through,
carried by a serene and wafting breeze.
It illuminates the pleasant, tickling greenery,
bringing to light the depth of her irises.

Fire belches from the mountain's stomach,
and the flame ignites a gleam.
Her gemstone eyes shine
as though the embers have been captured within.

At the base, there is the earth:
firm and dark and cool.
Interlocking underbrush layers fawn with chestnut
overtaken but not undermined by powerful streaking tree trunks.

The rim is built of force and rumbles with strength.
A cast of bronze is seething and glowing.
Her intensity blazes as sun spots
deep within ancient amber.

She is as her eyes are
an indigo inferno:
seldom
and
elegantly alive.

Fragile:
She’s thin in a hungry way,
and delicate in a sickly way.
She’s unused to how her hips jut out.
They catch the sharp countertop corners.
The pain whistles out of her like the shriek of a teakettle.
Her hip bones are colored with black and purple bruising.
Starvation has tapered her torso,
into the rungs of a ladder and the keys of a piano.
Countless fingers have ascended the ladder in her ribs.
Other times a melody was plinked out.
The cold easily crawls under her collar bone.
It breaks her skeleton and shreds her epidermis.
Curling inward she hugs and comforts her vital organs.
She feels like sticks and paper in the cold.
Handle with care.