Darkness grows old
Within these aching bones
And all I've touched
Has turned to dust
Words don't turn on lights
Like stones they sink
It's a stifling work of empty
And I write more of these
To skip and sink
To tell to the walls
And hear them upon my tongue
For therein lies a truth
Of which I must not speak
Hands that make
Are not hands that hold

I've been a cynic
Since time stopped ticking