She's out of place and you're not sorry,
You're silent but you rub it in.
Words empty of accomplishment
In the effort already passed.
(Give yourself a gold star for
I've sunk below the crust.)
No first aid for optical wounds,
Dig deeper than my razors,
Serrated edges of disappointment.
(For want of an ego,
Your purpose was found.)
Words sharper than diamonds,
Blacker than obsidian,
And I wonder if you know that
There's a pickaxe in your hand.
The eye of the storm, they call it,
Or maybe the plates have really stopped shifting.
In any case, you need not fear,
For you've already planted a spade in my hand.
Let me bury it, dig,
And maybe we'll come across
What used to fill this body.
(Should've warned me tension's worse than bedrock)