Language has been wrung of all it's meaning.
Soured notes and vacuous voices
Wring it still,
Tearing its skin
So its empty veins bleed
Empty thought and empty feeling.

And into this fray my tears
Wet the wounds,
Washing salt water through the raw flesh.

Its cries of pain against the moon are 
My muse,
My art,
My gift,
My soul,
Your entertainment.