non-stop.
An irremovable blot.
A ceaseless movement forward
into nothing.
Nothing but wondering why
our time seems to fly,
or what's beyond the sky.
Why do we even bother, to try.
Nothing.
Surely there's a point
to our creaking joints?
A meaning
behind all these feelings.
Nothing, but old photographs
in a worn-out frame,
of a long-forgotton name;
that will still only fade,
to
nothing.
Emma Barrett
Emma Barrett
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