As You Have Said

this

but

for nothing

as you have said, I have very little

interest left for this petty dance,

this arrogant display of pathos reproved,

legs, hardly lithe, scrambling across

a cold unyielding floor, stumbling

falling

            bleeding

for what? for what, these hands

chipped like well-trodden granite

beneath the feet of indifferent time

hardly drawing a glance, as pedestrians

pass on to something far more

compelling

            enduring

and me, a hopeless romantic?

to hell with that fine phrase, once

fulsome praise, self-sought

self-indulgent – self-righteous,

more to the point, being unashamedly

everything

            nothing

how insipid the taste, how frivolous

this face that refuses to witness its own

decline into morbidity, blinded

by a fool’s venture for so long, so

very long, as limbs contract, their strength

failing

            withering

and I could have sworn there was more,

sworn by all the gods I never embraced

and the One I finally did, in fear

feeling infinitely alone, incapable,

the vessel empty, the façade dulled

cracking

            crumbling

for nothing

but

this