• Cold fingers envelope this heart of mine,
    Twisting and turning and squirming through:
    Making holes and wounds and bottomless pits;
    Without a sound ‘til morning is dispelled.

    But out of those holes do bloom
    Such delicate flowers, fruitful little things;
    Intertwining with the windows and walls,
    Becoming a silent memory of you.

    Would you press your lips to them?
    A kiss could take away their stain,
    So to sing a lullaby again
    That once moved millions.

    But your mind isn’t in this
    Only hands and fingers came;
    Just to grasp the silver lining
    Of the heavens you left behind.