The Stillborn

My flushed hands are cold and undone,
like a stillborn laid out in the sun.
Voices from above and below,
plead their script begging me to let go.
I'm drifting, cause lost back in the fall,
less purpose than a ragged old doll.
Wet eyes, fire in my throat,
patient coma is the lone antidote.
Eyes open, seeing hardly a rock,
lost in the ghost town where my heart is still docked.
A pillar lost in context I see,
a reflection of how I wish to be.
The award, for quite the Hollywood show,
should be granted those whose lungs are hollow.
A light and the true path defined,
leave me going out of my hopeless mind.
Memories refuse to be put to bed,
triggered by visions of your face in the flesh.
Rebellious and proud is my heart,
 like the ocean waves that tear you apart.
'Tis one way to make painful hopes cease,
like a stillborn come and leave me with peace.