There is no sound now,

When I lower the bucket.

I have no wells to dig into,

No pockets of emotion to pull,

To write something.

A silly poem.

I am surprisingly awake,

For being hollow.

But I guess it takes nothing

To feel nothing.

It’s hard to swallow.

Just yesterday afternoon,

Was it?

Did I feel a bud poking from the ground.

Only for snow to come,

And cover it around.

My world does not share the seasons,

But it does not enjoy the cold.

I have been sent up from a rocket into outer space.

It is always cold here,

But I am closer to the stars.

The farther I am from the real world,

Will the closer I be to my head?

If books and stories exist simply inside,

Could I jump in and join them?

Would I be nameless,

Or would I have a face again?