The days pass like friends who cared in passing.
The nights grow shorter with each smile.
Grey thoughts are quietly amassing.
Quietly they sift dropping into a congealed pile.
This pile lacks feeling of any nature,
Just a formless ah and oh of all time.
It has a large yet insubsequent stature,
Just like this worthless scrap of rhyme.
Nothing is dark here, nothing is light.
There could be matter, dear, there could be,
But of no use to those who grovel to fight.
Just a quiet nothing pile of a quiet me.
Regrets are time consuming and arbitrary.
What is the use of vanity and thought,
When all that happened and would is contrary
To any life bought, any love sought?
The pile lingers and quietly grows.
Perhaps the only thing
That ultimately knows
A last song to sing.