What do I have left now?

All that remains of a vacant self

which feels familiar now.

 

Melancholy plays the old tunes,

not wanting to be heard

by this worn-out costume.

 

Succumbing to the emptiness

where darkness itself stays —

in the fists of the pools

I once drowned.

 

What is familiar now?

Is it the blossoms of tiny poppies,

or the craters of the moon?

I must say aloud —

what do I have left now?

 

All that remains of a vacant self

which feels familiar now.