swelling mahogany love
no longer tinged red,
from this gaping solitude. 

take grasp of my soul in your hands and lift it,
oh lift it please,
because this grave it has sunk into is dark indeed.

hold me to your chest, emanate and pure,
foreign to ravenous hands that claw at me
and pull me apart, tearing bits and pieces,
pieces and bits
of everything I am.
 
spinning, swirling
break the glass and pluck the hands from their bed of time
maybe then they will cease to tick.

rather to hear the persistent ticking of metallic hands
than abounding silence.