PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Hollow inside, as suddenly as a
hole left weeping in the ground.
A pausing, a remembered distance
aching to be filled in again.
Unprepared for the blankness
that steals like a thief across
the dim light of the night moon.
What I was seems unimportant.
What I want to see in the future
appears as pleasant insignificance.
I laugh at the stupidity of growing
ideas that will not have time to be.

Nor do chains mean anything.
They can only hold what is lost.
Cyclones and dramas are plastic
forks stuck into pretense and more.
I am licking the stamps of
foreign countries where people
speak in languages not mine.
Babies are born, people die;
one balances out the other.
How important is one life
when compared to another?

Everybody will cease to be.
So too will I, and all the plans
for doing this or doing that
will be as hollow as the hole
that holds my final home.