Shards

It's not human,
but it wants to be.
It is sucking warmth,
a hole because it is broken and fragmented.
Shards of a face
stare back;
a little piece of chin,
half an eye, blinking.
It looks empty, but has a semblance of face.
Where is the terror? Where is the love?
A low, steady keen is filling the space,
which swells to brittleness.
The floor shatters around the shards.
It is too much to ask,
to be held up.
It is not a given.
The shards fall, the keen recedes,
and as it does,
it loses its pervasive monotony.
The sound, growing softer,
acquires pauses,
and tonality.
It is saying something,
but as the sounds form (words?),
they become quieter,
and as I listen,
something so close to coalescing,
fades away.