Hollowness devours me
Silence eating words before breaths
Can even be drawn, like drafts and
Mere sketches of sentences
Traced in air no longer viable.
The pain is not excruciating, but empty
Like destitute dwellings underneath my
Skin craving for inhabitants gentle
Or wicked without shame.
Yet even these cannot fill and I am
Suffocating on the lack of devastation
Noticeable, categorised and almost
Neat.
Moonlit Poetry 