An old man's head:
a bucket full of lies.
A vortex swirls there like
confetti at the ticker tape
parade of a traitor.
Fragments adhere and disperse
becoming ephemeral poems
that mean nothing for a moment.
Whoever and whomever become
a jaded lump of whatever.
That empty head contains
multitudes of nothing that
never quite achieve something.
Poems made of offal.
Thoughts never finished.
Whenever he is, he has been,
he will be. Vortex like
water in a flushed toilet,
disappearing into ****.
Unspoken words sounding loud
in a cistern of silence
where nobody pretends to listen.

  ~mce