Poems
by Ellis
Brune
[as]
You ask
“The walls are dripping white, but
do you feel
I have become death?”
Fruits rotting,
the ceiling lifts -
and we become
a semblance of
who we are.
I want to be nothing
nothing at all -
and yet, I want to be -
a body -
and yet, not at all.
For now, I am
a soup of
blood and bones
and so many other things
I have never wanted to be.
I feel
sunken in,
bones protruding,
head quietly throbbing.
My existence has become too
loud.
Walls caving in,
I retreat,
but have nowhere
to run.
If there is a God
If there is a God,
She will have some explaining to do.
Why do I suffer
at her hands,
beneath her feet,
waiting for her?
Without meaning
I am left, all alone.
The pages blank
and without meaning,
the souls having withered
away.
