You are nothing

You are nothing

You are nothing but an unfinished epic

begun then abandoned

by a harried author,

who one day carelessly discarded the

pieces of parchment next to the sea,

left to the mercy

of the spray of foam and sharp rocks.

And now the pages drift where they will.

You are nothing but a desiccated will. A husk,

emblem or symbol of something

high, pure and original

that no one can reach.

You are nothing but a half-formed face.

A skull crushed by nothingness and

noise. Or, worse still, a porcelain doll;

a mannequin that stares and stares.