You see, there are veiny hands with milky
mangled bones, whose fists clench pulp insides.
The fiery burn of bile, and extraction of embedded
glass in fleshy feet. Rope-burn, gas pain, trickled red.

For me, there lies a book with torn out, scattered
pages. A teddy bear wears empty eyes
as stuffing billows out like smoke. Clamored
pots and pans in empty, hollow rooms
whose echoes hum Toccata & Fugue
in broken, choppy ***** rounds.

A ratty, pin sliced rag doll sits as sand
winds whip across deserted shores.
Chords in D minor can't quite capture
the element of loss as uniquely or eerily
as the silence I now reach out and grasp
in the hollow space your breath once filled.