STOIC

There is nothing,
short of absence

        flocked as well in chasm as expanse;
        deplete of all and nourishment
        in trance with echoed dance,
        which,
        farmed as wealth for plunder
        wears a cold and faceless frieze;

        as lingering and as formless,
        it, bequeathed in whole disease
        whilst bounded by detachment
        mirrored, stale
        and faint,
        and seized

as broken hearts denied repair
to leak, unprized, uneased


© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 19 December 2020

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