In your eyes you have nothing.
Dark space,
Surrounded by the flecks
Of inconsistency,
That form the grasping fingers
Which cling to the weight of the world
As if it’s comforting.
You take a bite out of ruin,
And watch it fix itself.
Your red raw hands
Denying themselves anything but anger,
In a bid to relinquish themselves
From the gloomy wood,
They’ve come to know as home.
Amy Elizabeth Poetry 