Simply you open your deep melancholy eyes towards,

Another heart so empty that even the emptiness was a form of nothing.

Layer upon layer of nothing,

Yet those eyes of obsidian light sifted inside the heart of blackness,

The heart that lacked all essence of colour,

And that essence of empty blackness was in fact something on it's own,

It was the smallest darkest reflection of the eyes that were sifting,

Deeper and deeper in infinite sadness into the nothingness.

The nothingness which is my heart,

The empty nothing which portrays itself as a part of everything,

Everything that is something but not quite.

My heart bleeds, the black dark hole that it is changes,

The heart of darkness is no more black,

But now red...
 
 

Melanie Dry
 ŠApril 1998