Arcane

happiness, the feeling escapes this yellowed body,
drags along joy and bliss and ecstacy with it;
i know it, because i see the remains stamped into the rusty dirt
i see the crumbles like crusts of bread fed to green ducks in a park,
green ducks in the azure-like ripples of an oval mirror.

but i see the vanishing trendils of loneliness too,
and sadness and hurt and fear;
and in its place, a cold stony nothing,
a vast emptiness that is more chaining, murderous, than any feeling, desirous or not, i used to know:
a human devoid of everything
that gives this world all authority to call it "man," call it "woman," call it "human being;"
a black wasteland of human shell, of nothingness,
as black as the cold, stone feathers of the ravens.

after that nothing
and after there is nothing left to believe in
i find i still believe in something:
crawling towards it, away from it, irrelevant,
(despite how)
each nothing has wrecked each view of this life.

and even though each time i can never see the world the same
there is always something to believe in when there is nothing.