Poems
by Ellis Brune

 

[as]

 

You ask

“The walls are dripping white, but

do you feel

I have become death?”

Fruits rotting,

the ceiling lifts -

and we become

a semblance of

who we are.

 

 

 

 

 

I want to be nothing

 

nothing at all -

and yet, I want to be -

a body -

and yet, not at all.

For now, I am

a soup of

blood and bones

and so many other things

I have never wanted to be.

 

 

 

 

 

I feel

 

sunken in,

bones protruding,

head quietly throbbing.

My existence has become too

loud.

Walls caving in,

I retreat,

but have nowhere

to run.

 

 

 

 

 

If there is a God

 

If there is a God,

She will have some explaining to do.

Why do I suffer

at her hands,

beneath her feet,

 waiting for her?

 

 

 

 

 

Without meaning

 

I am left, all alone.

The pages blank

and without meaning,

the souls having withered

away.

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