Empty

“Empty”

Fingers flying so quickly across a bunch of keys, signifying so little
No thought behind them
Not crafting, like Yeats
Not tapping, like Keats,
Into the soul of things.
Looking again still more into
lives of things
snapping
life
fingers tapping
across little black keys
full of notes full of death
the dirge of life heading
towards the funeral pyre
respire
respire once and give
a response
before the date of expiration
life is
untappable, unmentionable, unworthy
and unwritten