I'm going to give you the count of three to love me.
To own the noise of my torrential agony
this water carrier has broken.
All that's left is shattered earth
the sharp edges of my masque
and a very wet mess at the end of the fall.
A poet without readers is a fool with no court
a god with no worshippers
a voice with no speaker.
A man with no woman.
Soup without salt...
Night without stars.
I have become less than nothing.
Worse than having never been.
I am forgotten.
I am that tiny candle in infinite cold.
You are the hand gently strangling me
into submission, into sizzling oblivion.
How did I offend you?
How did I fail you?
Its much too late an hour for any of that to matter...
Dissapear in that empty night.
You are everything in nothing,
so go back to that place... and be.
