Much
There isn’t much I have left to do,
Glance into nothing hoping desperate for something,
Relax with hesitation,
Welled with emotions,
Hate,
Anger,
Strife,
Yet still like vastness.
There isn’t much I have left to break,
Rapid and reflected,
The question still sits on chapped lips,
Parched for but a taste,
Perchance,
Perhaps,
Yet still un-quenched.
There isn’t much I have left to lose,
Things I never really came to obtain,
Persons wanted,
Forgotten,
Driven,
Left behind in black plastic bags,
Yet still to be opened.
There isn’t much I have left to see,
But what have I really ever seen?
Just a thousand suns,
None of which I was able to endure,
None of which I sought at all,
Ebony in mind,
Memory washed ashore,
Yet still grains slip by.
Copyright © David A. Cain | Year Posted 2015
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