"It's years since you've been there..."

"Hell's devoid of teeth and sin
And I've been splitting skin again..."

I was again recalling those times when the world seemed a great, closed eye. When I felt nothing, thought nothing, saw nothing but an endless grey expanse too vast and depthless and penetrating. I was again recalling cold eyes and a granite mouth and the whip-flicker things that slipped from between streetlamp lips. The lacrim river failed to erode an I-thought-you-thought, tiny sighs were whispered under a failing-strength pretense, and "at the tick-tock of the flesh clock" one surmised mechanisms with which to remedy a human's wellness potential.

"Red-edged and listless, scissor-spined and blissless..."

At once and never can I find the means through which these torturous musings might escape. Insolent thought-things. This is what's scraping at my skull-base now. This is what has no words and these sentences I'll craft mean nothing; metaphor? Maybe. There:

Steel-fingered umbrella skeletonless and all amiss and absolutely beautiful despite an inner maxim that remarked "One for two and none for one, all your work's unwrought (undone!); worth nothing -- dust, and little more...unlovable, surely, to your core." Wrong! Oh, wrong! Adored even when it hurt, these window-lids bruised and bloodless. Moving under a spitstorm of the finest form, she recreated an attempt at amnesty and now there's nothing left to fall back upon in the event of an indisposable pain-demic shooting through pulpy pulsations...