I have no eyes with which to speak,
I have no hands with which to cry,
I have no heart with which to see,
I have no friends for which to read,
I have no mouth with which to lie.
What am I?
I have desires bigger than this world
Could ever contain.
I have thoughts that belong
In the pits of hell.
But it is my heaven, my sin,
And if I were Nabokov,
I would say my soul, too.
What am I?
What am I but the infinite conscience of man,
Trapped in the void of this limiting world.