empty

morning spent in mourning for
sparse sleep, filled with the
indentions left by visiting
spectres, the coffee pot sits
cold and drained,

i writhe

the coarse cocoon swaddled too
tightly, the putrefied organ
slurry of reconfigured mass, as
the rigorous transformation
sends ripples cascading

the words scream

yet i choose to ignore them
poetic nonsense blurring the
idiosyncratic dire demise of
a bumbling fool scribbling the
scenes only he can see, longing
to let the symphonic dismay
go silent in a perpetuity of
bland acceptances

rancor radiates
in cool dismissals
faulty missiles
in flaccid fluctuations
i am tired
bled dry
empty cupboards
empty hopes
emptyemptyempty

poetry is dead
dead as a doornail
dead as a dream
deceased longing lingerings
in a spectral sepulchre
the pantomime in
delirious disinterest
empty verse mocking
the mute chorus of
undulating adoration

enough. enough. enough.
keep your receipts, complete
a small survey, sell your souls
for a glimpse at
truncated beauty in
shivering slivers of
insatiable ignominy

hush. the poet is weeping
follow the transcendent trail
of tirgid tears tumbling
through translucent turmoils.
he weeps. sad and alone.

drowning in the waterfall
of semitransparency in the
toxicity of tarnished tales
half muttered
teeth chattering
an indecency of need
in a silence of going without.

i writhe in acceptance
a slow death in incremental
salvations. aloof.

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