Hollow is the hallway
where our friends
used to laugh and play.
They are specters now
of some long dead
imagined game.

Empty eye sockets,
cartilage,
broken bones
amidst this
creeping chaos
where the
death wish
has dismissed
so many
lonely kids.

How many
empty spaces
can you fill
with the losses
no one is willing
to reveal
because they
are still
looking for
missing heartbeats.

These tragedies
mark me
from a reader’s
distance.
I am able to
observes these
sorrowful instances
and transcribe
distorted paintings
of truthful lies.

Whilst wondering
who am I,
and why do I try?