When you are lost, do not think of me
for I do not exist. Perhaps once
there was a semblance, what we regrettably
call a ‘likeness,’
but this has long since left,
and all you know of me
is an image long passed.
I have turned over to a realm of nothing,
simply by closing my eyes once too many times.
When you are needing, think not of me
for I am not here. And besides
loneliness is just
an illusion we show ourselves
when we are too bored
by our individual nothings.
We turn over to a realm of objects,
awash in a shallow stream of antiworlds.
We go spinning through this constructed silence.
There is nothing left to claim nor declare;
We have said it all through-n’ again.
Each passing hour, day: a signifier of distance.
Yet I speak, praying e’er for connection,
A reignition of the warmth that reigned,
And a call against rising resentment.
I speak, and yet there are no ears left
To hear. There is nothing but distance.
There is nothing left to touch nor gain;
Can you, too, not sense this disintegration?
Soon they will become years: a pinch of salt
Cast into dispersal. What has been achieved—
What were these hours spent for—but tempering
Your spirit, to steel it from catastrophe?
I reach out, and yet there is no flesh left
To feel. There is nothing but distance.
I am weary of this night;
Yet I shall keep such strain to myself,
And treat upon the circumstance of the soul.
Encased in a boundless tomb, solitude
Once dearly wish’d now becomes a prison
To contain the greatest physical pain:
The endless crying void of distance.