There's a hole in my heart or
maybe my head. Yet all I know
is this abyss something looks like
a nest, a scraggly thing, made of
grass, and hay, and refuse, and trash
and this nest abyss holds,
or should I say held
A spark, an ember, that the faintest gust fed
And then it ate itself
A broken egg shell, blood and fluffy feather down.
The thing where when in sleep all dreams drown.
So if I'm distant, I'd say I'm sorry,
but I'm not.
It's only my nature.
My dead nature.