The emptiness of a man is not like emptiness on the wall,
it is platonic through the creeping sky.
The emptiness that talks to your mind,
where you understand the unparalleled world.
There is something bursting beneath the jawline,
something that produces more than a lonely feeling.
a sparrow reckons my dead poem-
a saddened tale that blooms under the belly,
They call it a dead poet’s nightmare.
A thing so vacant as if it never wished to exist.
The emptiness speaks of its beauty,
the narrow yesterday
The love poems of an old man.
I scream about my lies to the yellow walls,
a cue of slipping satisfaction from there.
What am I left with?
the most tangible noise to hear.
the warm crooked interiors,
the knob- cylinders empty,
t.v remote desiccated,
for noises inside the mind make enough noises.
There are fingers stretching forward like Spring
these lips, unfurling to revolve a poem about a poetess
to be told somewhere in the empty walls once again.