i know its crap writing.

all of it.

but i have no place to put it anymore

and theres no one to tell it to…

i dont feel anything about anything anymore

and that makes for lousy prose,

theres no wants, no hopes, no dreams, no life,

even the pain is dulled…

i know i must be sad,

deep down-

and that if i were touched id probably cry,

but the world is gone

and so am i

and theres little to say

anymore.

its just a countdown,

these lousy poems,

i suppose soon enough theyll go altogether,

theyre tapering already..

as i am,

so are they.

the willow is nearing death,

it was inevitable from day one,

its just all kinds of awful cruelty

that she dies

like this.

till then,

i gather in branches

and try to still my shudders,

ive learnt, you see,

theyre useless,

and they only scare

those that watch…

so lean i in,

over water with no reflection

and wait alone

for the end.