What Remains Of Me

A point I try to prove yet makes no sense,

A stable human’s just what I am not.

With me, no point to speak of future tense

For never will I reclaim what I’ve lost.

The engine never stopped still bears the debt

Of years and years of caustic traits run wild.

I failed to steer clear of the brands I've met —

I did! I did! Though I was but a child!

Where fire cleans it also eats me whole,

A forest burning down to show me truth.

It’s not quite right to call this part a soul,

This past of me in which I will not sleuth.

It’s demonstrated, thus now you can see

There’s nothing good that still remains of me.

tags: writing, poetry

~konomo CC-BY-NC-4.0

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