Writing Hard.

Sitting staring
Crying blindly out.
No sound nor motion
Still as the recently dead.

Has my heart stopped?
I can't feel it beat.
My eyes on stalks
Reaching into the void.

Fingers breaking bones.

My fibrous skin crackles, and
Dusts the keyboard with losses and
Age.

Feeling no release yet.
Burning our building bridges,
Daughter to mother, home to holiday.

They say we sit and bleed.
It's as easy as that.
As easy at that?
As being quartered by whole.