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

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