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mind's humid with the heaviness of sweet nothing
why must we rage and burn — turn to ash — to beat nothing?
the spine no longer stands the way it's supposed to.
floats in and out of sublimity to greet nothing,
how do we fight against a torpor so grounded? is it
with resolve? but is there a way to defeat nothing?
a path unfolds before me. in it I lose myself
only to forget where I come from: a street (nothing)
resting between the folds of an origin unknown.
as the silence shapeshifts into complete nothing,
I see my blood pool at the bottom of the abyss
a heart, a tired old thing, stops beating. I meet nothing.
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