Plot Zero

I don't but bewail empty parchment,

when I look upon it

and walk this ink unwelcome.

I've said to many in the land,

"If I am never when I belong,

it doesn't matter where I am."

Even this paper seems unopen,

and the pen thereupon- a door shut.

Why am I left with what.

Anxiety or reality?

How do they sound distinct?

Vineyards swarm dark blue blossoms today.

There are no deeply purple grapes to graze,

only black thorns to cloud delight away.

Like lone dross, I survey across.

The yawning view expands on and on,

'til sweet serenades drop & even End Times fall off.

Where blue skies crush green hills- I stare.

I hear an acrid green mist pour from there,

folding up from behind the sky's ear,

bitterly shrieking in sheaves from afar,

gently amassing to pollinate nearby air.

Bludgeoning my shoulders when they erupt,

I feel the disharmonic gales rail in cuts;

wild gusts brisk & cold, carving me up,

drying my tongue & cracking my lips shut.

Crisp scents of frankincense & mercy run away.

Or is it self, failing to forgive me of my mistakes?

If this is sleep,

and in my wake,

if this is the black hole

where no senses relate:

there is no escape.