How Bad It Is
How bad it is when every note you play upon the keys
sustains the void within the waiting soul;
when it is accepted that this flow will not stop
and bring an end to all these helpful faces;
when your scent assaults my senses like a bludgeon
and takes me to a day I want to bury;
when an empty chest refuses to give way
under the repeated blows of expectation
and all experiences in time coalesce into
a returning and enduring disappointment.
How bad when the abiding thought is that at this point
it could get no worse and then to be proved wrong
and wrong and wrong.