I may not be a ghost or a saint
to know the place you keep within is by the trees striking midnight at the most.
Trying to intertwine my fingers with your pallid hands comes against the law of your vicious past.
Your complexion broken in accumulated clots of despair in which you've hidden dearly
But your veins are intact and lungs in place, it is far too early to misplace the walls you have built.
The hollowness in between your guilt and creation
does not house what's left of your deceptions.

I may not be a ghost or a saint
to know the place you keep within
is at the palm of my trembling hands for me to break