Mind growing dim from the throb of memorized dates.
I cannot feel,
but if you so desire
I’ll tell you the dates of the Byzantine empire.
Or, if you prefer,
I could bow at the door of the man in the suit,
my surrogate sire.
I strive entertain you with my absence of light
but when I pick up a pen to fight
times new roman
spills from the hole in my temple.
But at least
I haven’t forgotten to cite the source of my plight.
And I’ll die away somewhere.
But I will go down howling in spite of the night.
I’m sure this is not the type of sad you wanted, but it is all I have to offer