Down into the howling hole in her middle,
Is run long before its end,
And she lays spent upon the glassy shards, Only comforted that miserable anaesthesia is coming.
Less than she is,
She always is,
Less than she can be,
Her limbs fumble every time,
Every time smashing into this pointed, piercing glassy ceiling,
Never exceeding these moments,
To be ever summed up by her fruitless struggling.