She’s made of,
pins and needles.
She spends her leisure with,
black-backed beetles.
Her glittering exterior,
is but a façade,
for ash-black interior.
Caught up desperately,
in the webs of existence.
She hears white noise,
off in the distance.
Obscurity calls,
her inner being.
Nights alive with writhing.
Too far above inner clearing.
There is…
Forgiveness.
Ecstasy.
Awakening.
Relapse.
Waiting in lines for broken dreams.
With trembling hands,
stitching anew their fragile seams.
How do we know,
when it is time to depart?
When the infinite abyss engulfs our hearts.
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