nothing to say, an arid landscape
of thought, an emptiness deeper
than the Mariana Trench
nothing to say
so say nothing
too late, the poetry demands
words as an offering, yet nothing
weighs more than infinite matter
so, why are you still writing?
good question - forcing the words
when night calls for sleep
is not poetry, but ego, the false
self - whose face in the mirror?
so shut up already