What is a whisper or a shout
when no one’s listening?

What is what is,
and what’s without,
if I’m not truly being?

What does it mean to feel,
if all that I know is but unreal,
and why does my heart sink in such loneliness?

There is no dialogue in poetry,
and for this,
I will ever wish my eyes
could produce tears.

Yet I am far too backed up
for such things to produce dribble,
nowadays.
My ducts will only respond to tragedy.

I don’t care if I’m beautiful anymore.
I don’t care if my words inspire.
I am a fallen tree,
in a forest only meant for harvest,
and the only guise of an audience herein
is carrying my destruction.

So harvest my heart for wood of the hearth,
and let me die in a blaze of glory.
Just please,
put me with my friends
when you’re ready to start your fire.