With nothing to see and nowhere to be, With no one to be and nowhere to go: Empty, like the meaning of the spring dew Dissipating, hundreds of pieces, scattered Individual voids waiting upon a cue To become what they embody, fettered. A field of unquiet quietness, occasionally interrupted by a single, awful tone. What existence is this exigence? Unknowable, unspeakable, unending: Pain is what it is.
The dew knows not why it's stepped on, Ending its momentary nature Only to crop up tomorrow and be none The foot becoming again its berater. And so it goes until the summer, with the cruel months behind it. The skull becomes and beckons Back into nihil. But there's too many things to see, places to be Too much to be and too many places to go For to be one is to be many and the dew tires.