There's so little remaining
of my affection for anything.
Even poetry now offers
it's forgiveness
for it's unfullfillment.
I've lost the patience
that carried me here.
I've grown tired of waiting
for something worth
the waiting.

There's so little remaining
of my love for living.
I've exhausted this forge
for its ceased creating.

The universe churns
and remembers little
of its former solidarity.
As gravity struggles
to collect stardust
before the void reclaims it.
Christ, but it must be so violent
and lonely there,
dependant on forces
that shape
and disfigure
on passing whims and fancies.

There's so little remaining
of my need for continuing.
When the morning is a knife
****** keenly in my side.
Before the caffeine cleanses
and imbides it's chemical veil,
to lend a false sense of purpose.
Black urgency,
coupled with a need for exceeding
the accomplishments of our fathers.

There's so little remaining
of gravity's hope for retaining.
When all it should do
is start letting us go.

-Kevin James