I am but a half-closed eye
An almost, yet hardly there.
I am but curled fingers and scattered anger
Only waiting for a dare.
Though hardly innovation
-as some might disagree-
Futile long has been my search
For naught the sun can see.
So I will stretch these arms and scream
Unravel every thread of skin
Twist these toes 'til they cave in
And all falls apart.
Yet even then, that is nothing
Not a feeling will I exhaust.
For the soul has no emotion
To satisfy the lost.
So I will lace these emeralds shut
Spin a web about this heart
And brace these shoulders for the weight
Of never-ending dark.