We’re all empty vases yearning for dead flowers

Its void - all of it - the room, the bed, these thoughts, my head, the heart, the throat, these hands that tremble within my coat

the atmosphere, the sun - the barren fields through which I run, the love, the mirth, the scars, the hurt, the fear, the comfort, the beating chest - within my shirt

It’s void - all of it - the skin, the bones, the cries, the mourns, the pen, the ink, the eyes that blink - the lips, the sheets, the cold, the heat - the art, the poetry, this life - it’s misery, death - it’s uncertainty

It’s void - all of it..

…and yet we’re all empty vases, yearning for dead flowers - in hopes to fill the void.