Empty…

With the exaggerated care

Of the weary

Placing the used up

Snakeskin of the year

On the bonfire of his vanity

He stepped back.

— 

He watched the fickle,

Trickle of his dreams,

Rise insubstantive and insubstantial

On the fluttering moth wings of hope

And with his heart

He blew a farewell kiss.

— 

In the dark winter night

The orange red flame

Consumed the essence

Nurtured and garnered

In all his deeds.

— 

On the field of Gold,

The banners lay

And the mandolins

Sung of battles won

And of battles lost.

— 

From the desert swell

He carried that cup

And as he held it high

He spilled that last

Vital drop.

— 

In the silent

Crystal night,

The echo of his

Words rang out

Their haunting melancholy ring

Into the absent wood.

— 

Feeling now that aching

Arching no-thing

Of his soul

He stroked the egg shell cavern

Of his ping pong

Life.

— 

And in the once resplendent

Halls of his dream

He found the comforting

Emptiness of

Being fully spent.

— 

And now

He reached down

To find that fragile

Seed of the new.

— 

And to plant it

Once more upon the

Windswept,

Landscape of his dream.

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