every word is a flake fallen to the ground,
chipped away from my hard flint self
and left alone in small, neat piles
to glint in the eyes of passersby
as evidence of some ancient man,
some life that once laboured
to leave a little of himself behind,
fashioning a starving, empty absence.

such an odd exercise of self-mutilation
where the parts pulled away form the art
and the meaning is in what we shed of ourselves
and the goal is to leave nothing but the trash
and the goal is to become

nothing