mute

empty

empty

A distant shore,
a near future;
a healing wound,
held by sutures.

A mournful cry
of burdened byes,
let them roll
tears down eyes.

A woeful tale
of failed escape —
how'd they get
in this state?

A hurtful row
fists and jowls;
what would mothers
think us now?

An exhausted exhale
of kept sorrow.
If problems pale,
then why bother?

A constant fight:
mind and body;
seems so light
written as story.

A dozen questions
in my head —
Are there answers
to souls' deaths?

A broken walkway
of forgotten models,
their youths faded,
churned in cauldrons.

An unkept promise
of strong will;
against Death's scythe,
it's one-nil.

An emptiness inside,
this hollow pit —
so wonderfully thrives
on silent sits.

Of the sins
I have committed,
I regret where
defeat I admitted.