Lost

The confusion of my soul
is surpassed only by the
disorder of my poignant heart.
If the heart be removed,
would I truly subsist?
My life appears as
mere shadows of light.
Drained and void.
A ritual of self-destruction.
Continuously revolving.
Feeding on my famine.
My soul doth waste away.
Laughter and joy are nought.
The inner person withers,
nevertheless, the shell
continues on its preset passage.
Like a leaf trapped
within an icy whirlwind,
encircling, round and round.
Wasted, hurled to the ground.