Of Yowling and Beatings

There’s no sound here,
only yowling, only
nonsense noise, endless
 
There’s no sight here,
only eye-shattering light,
only lid-stitching darkness
 
I am without present presence,
without an omen of success, without
someone with whom to share,
without the promise of remittance
 
Still, I would kill to find
the other parts of
my fractioned heart
To revive its beatings
 
I long to properly be
To de facto exist
 
And maybe, just perhaps,
if you stretch forth your hands,
I will grasp the love I need