For Nothing, For No One Else
The wetness, the mouth;
hushed and heedful, but
the latter left so bleak
yet so blithe with wanting
To be spared a drop, nothing else;
mimicking life for no one else,
Even so ceding to last, for no one else,
then staling as it does, for no one else,
And yet,
And yet,
Virginally biding; never questioning
thus all covet this mouth; never its
plight, with all their might now
blighting it— unthinking, all eyes
now paling; the light bleeding
into the mouth, feasting now
But a want of bone of contention;
always an awning, even
only as skin—of course,
when it is all it ever does
And so it gapes, all the grits
in the world immovable
on its rims—
it is all it ever knows; always sound
but never grunting. If it did;
did so to long—
restless, but wakeful nevertheless
For nothing, for no one else.
Always gaping, doing nothing else.
For nothing, for no one else.
Ever here, not anywhere else.
