I don’t know why bother it is not as if it matters.

I don’t know why bother it is not as if it matters.

I have nothing to give

Not even time is mine

It is a construct

An ever-changing perception

An evolution

Of sufficient magnitude

As to measure my reaction

From one point to another

Jumping the divide

Between endings

I am the product of re-uptake

An imbalance

To upset the applecart

Create a pandemonium

Of disordered proportions

Do not depend on me

As nothing but a promise

Remains the same

Even the words are second hand

Their originality lost in translation

No musicality

A staccato rhythm with little beauty

To speak of

If only the petals

Of a flower could understand

Their power to inspire

Perhaps they would fall no more

Leaves would never curl

Or turn to dust

Crumbling between clumsy fingers

Leaving nothing behind

But the stain

Of their dying

Perhaps then there will be

An appreciation of the sequence

Toward fragility

The delicacy of creation

Without reference to

The pomposity of a scribe

Emotion is a word

With more meaning

Than is written in a thesaurus

I can barely stop the seepage

Do not rely on me

To mop it up

I have nothing left to give

Even my shadow is disproportionate

I would rather not succumb

To the treachery of hubris

Release me

Of the promise

To observe

I have nothing left to give.