I once met a man,
He was more nothing than anything,
A blur of thick sweat in a thin plot.
“I’m stupid,” he said,
“My pride’s blocked the sun again,”
And I could smell
The fresh grave, the old rot.
A knife wound in his chest replacing
The concept of soul. “I wish
I wanted to live,” he said.
But I’d rather be dead, “If only
I got as much as I give,” he said.
Empty thoughts, karma bled.
His life was as hollow as
My intentions. And the only thing
That caught his breath,
Was accomplishing nothing,
Whilst lying in wait for
That mundane taste of rapture.
That mundane pace of death.
But as I reassured him he need not fear,
I caught his stare; reflected
Eyes glazed. From deep within
My bedroom mirror.