Your mind's a blur, it never calms.
You search in vain for the eye of the storm.
Ears strain for each word you say.
You never know in the dark where the words form.
Can you feel me pounding on your heart?
Fists of clay are of little use but my words will do their part.
The insects crawled across your heart so very long ago.
No one recalls the day it snapped, nobody seems to know.
Something inside your chest grew hard and worked to stop the flow.
If thy hand offend thee, make a fist, but you treasure it in vain.
If thy eye offend thee - better still, you'll always look again.
Just don't pretend the pain you feel will ever come to an end.
Can you feel me pounding on your heart?
Words may be of little use, but my hands will do their part.