There’s no place like

What am I good for,

If not for the rhyme and rhythm 

Of long winded defecations,

And high-spirited epigraphs.

Nothing,

I'm nothing,

No different from the hollow dessert

Of the shallow desert of my mouth.

Just like always,

In the willful frame, the naive canvas

Whose rise is greater than the run.

What now? 

What's left for me now that 

Honor and humanity have fallen,

Prey to insanity and profanity.

Stumbling over makeshift delusion,

What a callow cremation. 

Ass crisps, long since burned out, 

A pire in a drought. 

Vapor in a phantom rain. 

Left to ponder, train or feign.

It seems I've forgotten,

How paths diverge and break apart,

How a memory becomes a soreness,

The lick of leather, skin, or unwavering inanimance.

The embrace of balls of fire and bitter gales,

The will of affliction and ignorance.

The sight of the footsteps left behind.

1000 years have passed me by,

I must be the oldest thing in the room

To feel such spite for the living, 

Who only live within misgiving and die busy,

Like sand gazing at castles in the sky. 

I don't need this, 

This philosopher's legacy of

Altercations in intelligence and 

Fallacious sensations in 

Bogus bouts for wanton fashion.

Enough of split breath and perilous podiums.

I just want to belong where I'm standing, 

Out of sight, out of speculation, 

Out of condemnation.

Let me sleep in my generation,

And hold my tongue but for

Habitual motions and straightforward elation.

Just like the denseness and darkness,

Of my manifestation.

Where sentience and dissolution,

Become one.