lovely nothings

Behind walls that smell of bleach

a man preaches immortality,

pretty words on white paper,

a legacy of empty promises and unfulfilled dreams.

 

He tried to teach me to write a sonnet, once,

to stitch syllables and lines

that didn’t mean anything important

together with birdsong and sorrow.

 

And they were pretty words-

but empty ones.

And I think that is where we differ,

man of smoke and salvation.

 

You want to be loved for your work-

to write pretty things on paper wings,

and fly away from this place.

and I?

 

I want to rot

under the weight of these words,

knowing they are more

than lovely nothings.