I click my bones
to know my hollow.
My skin shades
until I am glass.
I am fragile tainted glass;
tinted, unworthy. My bones
open for your transcendence.
I welcome shatter. Please, your
fire binds my flesh, so shade
me in perfect hollow
promise. You caress my sanity’s hollow
skeleton and stain my skeptic glass.
I feel the static of my ether. “I am Shade,”
you whisper. “I, too, was once bone.”
But I plea: I cat not stand as you
did, I can not stand this transience.
My soul craves to sense the purity of silence. Of silence…
OF SILENCE! I will scream until you mute me to hollow,
but you pervade me with breath and blood, but you
coil my insides finitely, cursing me with mortality: I am glass,
still. Still detained in derma that forged curves over my bones.
But what is all of this? Smoke and mirrors? Contrast in the shade
of light’s shade?
So I will wait to melt by incandescence,
knowing that reality is not bones
but accepting it is hollow.
No purpose is clear in this glass,
questions continue to reflect. And you,
assure me of the glass’s
honesty. But I am not convinced
that this overwhelming hollow
feeling is because of my bones.
know more than hollow–
they live for an empty existence.