The words grow strained and rusty now.
They’re murky and unclear.
Is there no need for writing now?
I’ll read them, if you’d hear.
So much to read, so little time.
The shelves of shelves are full.
We need to know our better selves,
the tug becomes a pull.
The words are circling the drain,
no washing them away.
Our better selves do not exist.
Let’s finish out the day.
When you begin to understand
it all dissipates, becomes obscure,
forgotten, and lost to time,
you see the fragile futility of
Monuments fall into ivy covered ruin,
icons die ignominious deaths,
shelves get dusty,
and painting fades.
Dances fall out of fashing,
and the classic is
reimagined and reworked
until it’s redefined
to new and undeserving critics.
Your legacy work, of all you ever were,
will be interred or scattered.
The body of work decomposes,
a rotting testament
to the vagaries and auguries
Until one day…
Within this pit of poems I am abandoned,
bereft of thought, and will.
The images that once assailed my senses
grow faint and blurry,
leeched of color and pleasure,
fading to sepia,
to black and white,
to black and void.
Once, they clamored for attention,
but now they only scratch at the walls,
more from reflex than any desire to flee.
I long to escape as well,
but here, among that which I also cast aside,
I realize there are storms in the world above me,
and blood and fire and stone
surround me on the surface.
And so I clear a space to curl in on myself,’
content to sigh and dream,
and left to fade
in this pit of poems.