In lethargy I turn my head toward
The corner of the room, the dry remains,
The shriveled carcass of the roach nearby,
And sigh for energy that never was.
The carpet holds the choking, scattered light;
The coffee table buried under ash.
And now, the fuel all burned, there's only ash
Addressed to time itself; the chair toward
The sill sits vacant in the shafts of light.
And though some portion of my mind remains
Inside my torpid self, what really was
Was held within the galaxy nearby.
A spirit hovered in the beams nearby,
The motes of dust descended to the ash
And mixed in grays like lovers' hair. What was
It that you told me when you turned toward
The door? That only happenstance remains
That somehow renders all decisions light.
The heaviness of being in a light
Malaised, although akin to those nearby,
Is that when others move it still remains
In yesterday's interrogating ash.
Inside itself, the soul contorts toward
A feedback loop: not what it is but was.
The testament of Earth without one was
Cicadas whitening the lower light
Of evening. Stirring on the couch toward
The open door, the pen has slept nearby
Among receipts and splintered stems and ash;
Perhaps a greener world there yet remains.
The agency of effort still remains
The jewel of human life. Among what was
The generations now reduced to ash
Is all the richness of the purest light;
Millennia now past are still nearby,
The same bright star as us they turned toward.
Remains of oeuvres derelict in light;
Ah, that was when the future was nearby:
A present not of ash to turn toward.
A place for my poems 