my poetry is dead and I will follow soon
my words haunt
and I can no longer give them their weight

I always thought I was an opener
that I help those around me, with a word, with my presence, with an idea
but everything was just an illusion

at least if I could cry
but my soul is drier than the desert
barren land on which not even the dunes run

I ground the meat of the words, keeping only the shell for the world
my thoughts run wild to nowhere
and yes, my poetry is dead. at least if I had the forgotness