Bits of Nothing
by S.V. Farnsworth
I write upon the dead trunks of trees, paper dry and ink wet.
Wanna be.
Press me softly lest I fail to tell the tale of a rising sea and a windy Gail.
Trite.
Preferring failure, I digress, becoming loathe to put forth a single word.
Quitter.
I write nothingness, hiding in the branches of my mind.
Never was.
I am surrounded by leaves, the litter of trees, my work reduced to shreds.
Waste.
Forests hewn and ground to bits, I consume them by my hand.
Drain.
Forcefully tattooing my grief and love upon nature’s page, I mar myself.
Fool.
My will is not still. My hope flickers in the breeze.
Failure.
Undisciplined,
the volumes of my mind’s fruit are consumed, leaving nothing.