It's a void, this inactivity.
Spent.
The sap of satisfaction drains from your limbs.
Each finger falls numb and yet the cup is held
for illusion to be drunken,
for a sip of merry when all mirth has sunken.
Velvets of the dark wrap away at this solace,
enfold their arms and embrace this form so limp.
Mourning is delight. Drown you, further in despair, in shades of grey
unless, flicker in time, the pale shadows of day.
Glimmer into your pupils, a beam of cream and white.
A quick warmth rushes to these naked arms, bare toes
to have you recover from your woven woes.
The cup to tumble will be gripped.
It's a slow repair till loss is not all,
till the self will suffice to pour into this void.
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