Vacancy, the emptiness found
Inside. Mirthless to the ungrateful
Rouse. Pushing itself on you as if
Genial, yet harried. And then the
Ignominious squashing out from our
Nadir. Digesting away your only
Indulge of your cadaver. You know
Then your small boudoir of your
Youth has been ventured.
© 2011 S. D. Blankenship
