Dry

’Twas folly to believe in lies,
Yet who would know what’s good and true?
Our words are clouds in empty skies
That in good time we come to rue.

’Twas folly all along, I know,
Yet hope clings to a mother’s dress.
If anything, it goes to show
What otherwise we shan’t confess.

’Twas folly, and you left me sore,
Yet played along as best you could.
I spelt your name with my own gore,
Bled dry, now leave me, if you would.

China in the Void

‘I feel lost inside my own skin’, I wrote.
It is not like a prison –
I am just all over the place –;
not like ashes scattered to the wind –
I just extend indefinitely.
I cannot get a hold of anything –
it keeps floating
like ethereal china
in an endless void.