HellBent

Inside, crushed like a bug
In a tin can, life welling up
Between scarred empty fingers
Glance down at the half-empty cup
And catch breath, taut with a twang
Slice through perceptions
To dip conscious thought
Inside, crushed like a bug
In a tin can, tears flowing down
Into lifeless white palms
Carressed by the winds
Sorrows in mortal form
She is sweet and I am empty
But for this tin of voice
White dust flies pale
And time shuffles through
The billowing curtains
Night sky sighing
I am in pain, but she it at peace.