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Constellation skin,

stretched thin across the stars;

space-time scalpels, every moon a leech;

hollowed out, the cavern corpse;

to demand fairness in suffering

is the dying fool's task;

gaze upon a life not lived—

the giant feeds.

Taste the weight of phantom limbs,

the wraiths of self and soul...

Let it go...

Larger still, the glutton beast,

ire of the aimless;

vengeance shrieks through carcin lungs,

heart becomes the rope;

the blackest days,

morphine hate—vomit decay,

swallow blood to chase the pain away;

tarred and shunned—

the giant grows.

Taste the weight of phantom limbs,

the wraiths of self and soul…

Let them go...

To find meaning in absence

is ever the peasant's quest;

no purpose in sacrifice,

only the ghosts;

the amputated aspects,

psalms of peace and joy;

the arms of love—an albatross,

the bones of hope to void.

Can you see them?

Through acid tears;

lost years.

In the symphonied shadows

of lives long stolen;

shattered one, cadaver shell,

there's nothing for you here;

rage futile but a moment,

pry smoke from the gods;

until the fingers bend and snap,

beat your fists against the sun.

Can you greet them?

With a knowing smile;

spit bile.

Sift through ash with burning palms—

is this all there ever is?

Angel wings in fossil dust—

is this all there ever was?

Taste the weight of phantom limbs,

the hands you'll never hold...

Silence, the language of the cosmos;

an indifferent tongue

whispers maternal secrets:

It's all there will ever be.