Coughing Up

Coughing up the Daydreams,
there I see small   Bits
of   Spittle  and  Dust
from other Peoples
Expectations of me.
Now       I   keep   a
hankerchief handy
at  all  times.

Interminable loneliness of spirit is all that I have to look forward to.

Dire prediction, maybe, but that’s the solid star in the iron sky. Everything else has burned out, or worse, looks to be falling. The collision course with the end after a flight of fancy.

Some days I’d give anything just to feel nothing. If I could feel nothing, I’d never fear losing anything. And I’d have nothing to live for except the certainty of a sunset.

But what price would you pay, if you lost the ability to feel? Art? Love? Wonder? If it could be replaced somehow, would you care?