The slightest sound
Reminds me that my soul is bound
No longer profound
I am silenced

The abject emptiness
My heart cannot support the weight
of this
heaviness

I wonder
On the nature of things
Lucretius

My constant wondering if this is it
I can no longer sit

Around and be idle to this idol
What is it that I am choosing to be?
Is this me?
Is this what I am meant to see?

Of where I've been
The halls I've wandered
The solitude encompassed in the empty rooms
When I am alone with me

My past,
My memories
I try to ignore her
But she demands and audience
With herself

Who am I to deny
Her of her own being

This is not a poem I have written for you
This is why you are confused

I am my own muse.