Late night poetry,
To no one.
Lying in the dark,
White noise cacophony.
Numbers.
Is that all my art has become?
Tally towards greatness,
As if each individual piece,
Were worthless trash.
Alone again.
Always alone.
There are no metaphors,
For solitude,
That ever seem adequate.
Black.
Silent.
Still.
Late Night Poetry To No One.
