hollow

the hollow space waits to be filled
- yet, by who?
the curling tendrils of my soul retreat, and try to paint
their existence into nothing
- against the walls that don't exist.
they hide - immersed in the bark-colored soil -
seeking refuge in the cool, wet blanket - smothering
their sobs that cry out for -
for what?
How can the heart cry if it doesn't know what it's crying for?
Their tears send newborn shoots out of the soil.
Parading their humiliation.
And again,
they retreat
farther
down
down
down.
Stretching their roots as deep as they can go.