I am the wasteland.
My chest,
A cavity shoveled empty,
Filled with infinite space,
Devoid of blood and bone,
Is host to cosmos and ghosts.
And where I once had heart,
Black holes,
Punched out and multiplied,
Empty and expanding,
Aching under the weight of eternity,
Riddle the cavity where my soul once lived.
And shackled to the weight of fate, I watch as:
Shovelers and boxers,
Blind and unaware,
Consciously choosing not to care,
Speaking iron words of weaponry,
Turn my body into a canyon.
And as this scene is comes to a close.
My death,
Foreshadowed early on,
Also barren and filled with despair,
Beckoning and luring,
Is clearly laid out on a horizon.
And though it's true I have been hollowed out,
The void,
Absent hope,
Blank and staring over the human race,
With only wisps of thought to run my head,
*Is the comfort I've learned to be.
