Nothing.

Prose wrote to nothing

Left in sorrow to bleed the air

Prose of blank hysteria

Soiled in smoke to grace the air

A face of dampened porcelain

A face of no fair grace

Falls slowly to the falling chest

The small voice has no place

Recovery from shards of past

That haunt and promise pain

Become so old and tried

They mean nothing, again

To his eyes she only falls

And she drowns in his appeal

This is what it's like to fail

When you no longer wish to feel