There are too many things untold,
too many to let anything unfold,
it's trapped in it's own trap,
distracted by it's own call,
If I'd help
I'd rather do nothing at all
because my nothing is
always at my beck
and call.

Even as I lay asleep,
I find the darkness of mine,
stirring beneath,
the inky dark taking hold
and I find nothing,
nothing at all.