Dry

’Twas folly to believe in lies,
Yet who would know what’s good and true?
Our words are clouds in empty skies
That in good time we come to rue.

’Twas folly all along, I know,
Yet hope clings to a mother’s dress.
If anything, it goes to show
What otherwise we shan’t confess.

’Twas folly, and you left me sore,
Yet played along as best you could.
I spelt your name with my own gore,
Bled dry, now leave me, if you would.

Nonexistence

[I wrote the following poem for this world of text. Rough coordinates: x:1 y:-3]

If I exist here,
I am the word indeed,
As the word is I.
But the letters
Are only words
For those
Who can read,
And they do not mean anything
In this vast space
Of random thoughts
Of existence.

Soon

[I wrote the following poem for this world of text. Rough coordinates: x:2; y:-3]

There is always an empty page to be filled,
And words are our means of doing so.
But what, if anything, can we do to fill
The emptiness in our hearts –
Black holes that tear
Into the very essence of our being?
Soon all shall be consumed by darkness,
Erasing memories both dear and painful –
Soon it will all mean nothing.