This emptiness fills me,
Consumes me, from within.
This nothing is scrawled
As graffiti on the walls.
Eternity’s footsteps just dust now
Etched out like a secret code in the dirt.
A diatribe against existence
Shouted into the vacuum
Echoing through these empty halls.
But I’m numb to the pain now,
A shadow of what I was;
Nothing’s real, nothing hurts.
© 2021 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.
Made of sticks and stones 
It’s a poem but it feels like a beautiful painting.
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Thank you so much. I’m glad the sensation of three dimensions in the poem came over.
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