and it's empty
colorless
from my view
I write
and it's empty
words mean nothing
they only
f
i
l
l
the page
I live
and it's empty
words mean nothing
all is colorless
from my view
Will Death fill the empty?
or will I realize
that
painting
writing
living
was, oh, so much more
than a dream could be?
Turkey Buzzard
