How much life do I have to cut away
to make a space big enough to breathe?
Now I gnaw on the raw edges, disturbed
by the cold air gushing from these wounds
where I severed all connections. Since then
the void of daylight hours is limitless. I could toil
and fix everything with all this slow empty time.
Maybe it was wishful to think I could heal at all. 
Like blood my life coagulates as the months pass
solemnly, fruitlessly, bringing no great epiphany. 
My future necroses. Blackening in the distance,
the rot spreads inwards from my periphery.
Why am I so tired even in such quiet? Silence
still is too loud. What must I give up now, now
that I am surrounded by all these gaping holes?