The bad ones, the deep, dark secrets, stay hidden the longest. Festering, roiling, gnawing.

A door appears as I tremble cold, receding portal of fading light. Frantically clawing to find a hold, but there's nothing left, and nothing right.

Where is this fraud called hope? Tell me how would it feel? Why does it evade me? I have no faith it's real.

Nothing gives like nothing left, where naught but scattered ashes lie.

I'll carve a special little niche, safe from the perils of life, where I can make a place for hope. First, I'll need to find a knife.

Too many walls in every direction, with cryptic boxes stacked too high to see. I cannot climb out and cannot push through to wherever I’ve left my empathy.

We'll be consoled somehow by the odd notionthat it's the thought that counts.

We'll be consoled somehow, by the odd notion that it's the thought that counts.

Could treats so good be bad at all? A hunger oh so strong... 'La Dolce Vita' is my call, delicious can't be wrong.