The march of dullness crawls across line and page,
slowly wrapping up, but never ending, the strain of today.
My emotions a long maelstrom, me their long victim,
both at last rest in the only way I know: shipwreck.
The pathos has caught up at last to my emaciated mind,
and my limbic motors sputter, spiral, and then shatter.
The threshold is met, the cap is reached,
and the last emotional calorie is spent. Penniless.
Sociopath is a charged word, and this place is hardly permanent,
an ugly truck stop on this death-bound rain-soaked drive,
but I am beautifully numb, anesthized by overdrive,
having cared so much that all caring is used. Careless.
I’ve always been afraid of this bare-soul waste,
when the lacrimosa has dried up and the cruel jester laughs
at how the body moves on even when tears are left ungenerated.
Movement is gyration, stillness is stoney. I remain.
Although reduced to the life of an automaton,
I can yet render robotic praise,
because God made the morphine as well as the thorn.