Nothing

As cold as stone skin or the vacuum of space,
or the grey taste of dust on a tasteless dead moon.
As cold as a face that refuses to face you.
As empty as ghosts with no room.

Blacker than logic.
The hard crusts of bread.
Words wrapped in silence.
All feelings unsaid.

As cold as soft anger
between insecure mice.
As empty as typed words,
and printed goodbyes.

As loveless as glass,
or masturbation,
or poems by gear and machine.
As futile as a dream.

Every glimmer of passion and joy,
of love,
is gone.

Nothing remains.
Nothing is left.
Nothing.
Not even sadness.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.