GONE

The hole is
A monster
That squirms against
My spine

It quivers and lies
And multiplies
Into tales of
Numb and pale

Within the sack
No colour sings
Just a circling filament
hunched and bruised
that pours its screeches
into luminous screens
Mesmerized by its
own painful light

A far out attempt
for revival
Partially sagged by
the gagging outcomes
of previous people

It’s the hole
To fill with hate
when no colour sings

The poet never lies
when everything else
is gone.