Empty Streams

I wrote this in a spasm of creativity amongst the beginnings of this year’s seasonal affective disorder.  It most likely won’t make much sense to you.  Perhaps, find your own meaning in it.

 

I am raw nerve exposed
to gravel face laughing
Expecting nothing but fits
of unending aftershock tremors.

I’m sorry the end
turned ellipsis in seconds,
wrought iron teeth
cracked with cold inhale/exhales

I apologize in advance
that my head
is empty of answers.
I’ve got just a fistful of questions
and a pocketful of nothing.

As the bats empty the bell tower
I am ever ringing
in the belfry with
lit lighthouses aflame
casting curses
into the fog of night.

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