Today we fill the silence
with our daily woes. A looming
death in the family.
The dangers of
hereditary alcoholism.
Why don’t you call more?
I close my eyes
and listen to the gentle
drone of our table fan,
lose myself in its idle
summer hum.

I am full of
nothing. My cup
runneth over with
hollow offerings.
To the tune of tragedy
I offer emptiness as tribute.

The sun hangs low in its 
noose, broadcasts scarlet
fermata final breaths
to an audience of stars.

The thoughts cut deep tonight.
They slip in, uninvited, 
critique every thought
and tear at ambition with
vorpal fangs.
The night stretches on,
endless, before me.
I press pen to paper and bleed.