I tend to the plumes
Of coffee pots
To the high noon cries
Of scalded kettles

Days fall away
Like tainted prose
Consigned to waste
Depleted and hollow

Like half-hearted sonnets
In a journal’s fold
Languishing through the years
Unlovable and obscene

All I have
Are rail-thin fables
Feeble offerings
To the massive void

To fall unheeded
Instantly foregone
Is the lingering fate
For the legion I spawn