Wounds can go deeper than any black hole, a bottomless pit where no light escapes.
The wounded cross event horizons full of envy, absent contentment.
Starved for love, feeling no one understands,
then settle for crumbs of personal attention, bask in the glitter of faintest praise and
shine like a cherub with every sign of recognition.
Desperate empty hearts chase mythic dragons of hope through neurons of mental space.
Fire breathing dragons of uncontrolled desires, gorge on nods of attention and smiles in their direction.
Unable to quench growing anxiety, they fail to notice the event horizon; their marrow sucked from now charred bones, shredded in time.
So many galaxies of pent up emotion
whirl through interior space
to die in entropy,
unable to trust order in swirling chaos
or the presence of empathy.
THH
6/25/25
Thoughts Have Hands 