A pinprick prods at the weary old soul,
flickering above and beyond its grasp.
Laughing and cursing, it digs up the pain.
Ripping and tearing, 'til we lose control.

Silence, then whispers, weary photographs.
All imprinted, all pressed against the glass.
Begging me to reach forward, take a look.
And in my grasp, the pain begins again.