the empty

by Evan Riley

Fill it up, fuck it up...
What's the difference anyhow?
All i've wished and all i've gained,
Like the leavings of an animal.

Joy, disdain, fear, thanks; how perceptive!
Another mark on my soul,
Stigma of life and experience.
Another souvenir from the theme park.

What is the meaning of all this and that?
Is there, could there be a reason?
A method to the mattedness?
Colors pale, and light sublimates;
Nothing on the horizon,
And no hope of anticipation.

Chains of mundane have rusted away,
But their icy grip retains.
A phantom of a past-thought haunting the me.
Will i ever escape?

Are such meanderings destructive,
Or merely unconstructive?
Can i become i while they feed the fever?
The empty will refuse to come, won't it?

The rebirthing is a necessary thing,
A purging purification of the putrefaction persistently present.
A grand becoming, on par with the gross...
And so, all must be left behind.