The Present Absence

desire torments me:

never quite enough,
or the decay
            of far too much.

poisons everything
            so seductively,
that the Will becomes disgusting,
& never-ending;
a Thing dead yet somehow alive,
            a zombie
convulsing on the floor
in a room
with an unlockable door.

A present absence
expands & contracts,
hollow at the core as
            thin thoughts
convinced that words
can poison internal organs
into a pool of stagnant water
where no light survives.

Every breath in my chest
a heavy lead
trying to break
my lungs;
the days
        fold & fall away
only the faintest trace
of what once

All of which is to say
that this is a desperate plea
from the one who writes
to the one who reads:

is there anyway to find peace?

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