Dead Poem

I should have written that poem for you
Yesterday.
When words were floating inside my eyes;
when every thought ended with

“Him

the one

with music in his fingers

the one

who brought manna from heaven”

and so on and so forth.
Absolute mush, but then you know me -
I am no different from the rest of them
when it comes to love. I am just a fool.
Just like the rest of them.

Heavens! There is no sadness anymore.
This assertion is not like the ones I’ve made before.
There is not even an empty space
where thoughts bounce around
and by the lack of resistance,
demonstrate to self that
it indeed is hollow.

There is nothing.
Finally, I understand the concept that ‘nothing’ is also matter.
Dark Matter. Anti-matter. I should have been a scientist.
Mad scientist. What fun!
Strange, isn’t it, how some things are clearer during adversity
when the brain is shot with the fog of numbness.

I should have written that poem for you
Yesterday
I thought it was beautiful
Mush it was, yes, but then you know me
I am just a fool when it comes to you.

I have no poems anymore
Let Go. I have.
The poem has died.
Beautiful dead
Things beautiful dead
Don’t you see the vultures already
Can’t you hear their curses already
They wish me further betrayals
They eat corpses, they curse.

Let me just fucking die.