The hole in my soul,

is this devoid place, 

where something died,

revealing a fresh field,

ill-suited for new crops.

Its shape is a big zero,

an expansive bold circle, 

all in all encompassing,

and yet within this space, 

vacancy remains occupant.

The wind cuts me in half

as I thread and weave

hope into firm resolve, 

a million clever stitches

to catch my inner dreams.

My heart is threadbare,

my inner artwork weak,

wispy-stranded webbing,

a half-hitched last ditch,

to catch the falling stars.

... alternate title to this poem "If Only My Heart Were a Spider Who Could Shit Web!"