Thursday, December 24, 2009

659. NOTHING

NOTHING
I'm so tired I could kill. I can't complete anything,
I can't finish my mind, I can't tend to my thoughts.
Like a bad angle in a carpenter's nightmare, I
simply fit nothing. I can make no sense.
I'd rather be electric, be finished, be dead.
I'd rather have a carpet thrown about my head.
Any magics there might have been have now
disappeared in turn. The eagle has lost an aerie,
the hawk has lost its roost. Over the river,
nothing. All over the land, nothing. In the
frieze of air within the sky, nothing.
In the sunlight, nothing.
Even in fullness,
nothing.

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