Empty

To empty days,

Coward ways.

My feet,

They just lay.

I don’t move,

Neither do I grove.                                                                                                               

I’m lost,

Even on days when I’m found.

 

It’s empty here,

Where days don’t turn to night.

Where thoughts don’t turn to action.

Where sawdust meets sawdust,

On compromised land.

 

I’m not your saviour,

I can’t even save myself.

So,

It’s empty here.

Voices cling to vacant ears

And tired minds.

The green beyond,

Seems blue.

I’m still looking,

It changes now and then.

I recall seeing a bit of amber once,

But it was for such a brief moment,

It seemed I had imagined it,

In this tiny brain

That makes sense of nonsense most days.

 

I’d stop,

If my hands could understand

If they would just listen.

But that doesn’t happen often.

Nothing much happens here.

It’s empty most days.

I’m a coward on most days.

But when I dare,

The grass seems brighter somehow

Like the universe understood the step I’ve taken

To come out.

 

I’m a coward most days,

But I still dare to dare.