I am a fake.
Walking through the false tears
Of sand, I bristle at the thorns
I know I am nothing.
I come and go dreaming big dreams of empire
Yet sawdust falls around me
Covering my nestled spine in leprosy.
I used to hover orchids purpled in oblivion.
I would linger softly with loving touch over a book,
Rustling its pages, savoring its letters, its text.
But no longer do they speak to me.
No books no writing no words no people.
They have all left me.
And so I stand alone, thinking myself empty
Visible to none, a shattered vessel
Ruined by a broken pen.
November 9, 2012