With a sickened hand I drain all the ink
all out like sand through a broken hourglass.
Like the fates that ran out of thread
to carve even an abrupt ending.
The ink spews out into the plane
like a dying child; burnt slowly to death.
The dry corpse of its demise
like a final message reprised.
Today; as yesterday: a tautology.
The child: illness disguised,
deprived of all breath; discharged,
the liquid, black: grows outward.
Like the end of a thread, without
need for a snip; declaratively the end.
Like the shards of glass laid bare.
My world recurs: nothing left but despair.
YOU ARE READING
Snippets
Poetry"Snippets" is a collection of what I deem to be the best of my early poetry. Often written late at night, I like to think of them as snippets of my phenomenological experience at certain points in life, a memory of thought out of time that I can rea...
