hollowed out

I am hollowed out.

this bundle of sticks and pretence has finally clattered
to the stones of the street,
making a sound
like despair
as the air is sucked away
by the need.

the need.
for that which I have let slip away.

grey is the sun.
grey
and grim and unforgiving

like conscience.
like truth.
like a rumour or a lie
told
until you begin
to believe
that there is more to it than petty mischief
of a chronic, ironic evil.

black is the moon.
black
and low and evocative

like pictures.
like music.
like a memory that rises
choking
you on your own bile
before a smile
can rise to be thrown down like an idol
made of glass and soapstone.

red is the sky.
red
and loud and chaotic

like my thoughts.
like my dreams.
like words that pour
painful
as blood from a wound
self-inflicted
and left to fester and finally decay
like joy, in the silence of your absence.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.