I am running from the quiet that threatens my every moment
fleeing from my very ability to feel, the very beating in my breast.
How could you ever let your soul ache for sunshine
or the red of your lips beg for a drink,
when all that is left is winter and all that you taste is dust?
And so I pull myself back, in and away from my own finger tips and face.
I make myself small and retreat deeper and deeper in,
in and away from myself, farther and farther into myself.
Thus I have become hallow thing
but a hollow thing is safe from all the quiet and the rain,
safe from just how real it all just might be,
safe from all the screaming and the wanting, and the weeping and the waves.
Thus I have become a hollow thing, running from my bones
for they are yet still burning
with the memories of home.