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PAGES OF NIHIL : TOCKA

There dwells but myself
For those who stay
Are years away

Fickle touch of the morn
The air is thin, and
Without substance, torn
As the innards of my spirit
That longs to escape me

My heat radiates, melts
The falling snow, pelts
And my footsteps disappear
Behind

Another moment stabs my brain
And girds my throat, aback
Into the heart of the question
That I fail to answer
For I lack affection

Ever dull it may be, echoes
Through my body
Tremors of dissatisfaction
My venue of dissolution

It could be described as mire
Without bottom
Ichor, sludge grave
From which life can not stray

And yet, I toll the barrens
Still searching for the loam

This infinite regression
Spiral of helplessness
I can hardly see the hand
Reaching down from the threshold

Accompanied, the fractals drift
Into my palm
And become your tears
That I envy for

And the morning again burns
To spite once more, my lack of worth
Choir of the early birds
Sleep once disturbed, returns

Sight is lost, moreso given
For my utopian night
If only I could make it last