Ink
Is how I deal
With the fact
This all means
Nothing

When feeling
Oddly empty
Despite
What dream
Insists

How hope
Is nearly fate
As it draws
From senseless
Wishes

And signs
In makeshift
Comforts
Along one’s
Dotted line –

That heartbeat
Slowly paced
Weak
And falling
Victim

To the promise
Vaguely conjured
By breath
Which bears
No name

As truth
Now given grace
Through agony
Made
Of reason

Where faith
And human wisdom
Accept
But can’t
Deny

Those papers
Stealing words
For crimes
Of lost
Distinction

Ending
As we’re always
Expiring
With our
Thoughts,

For pain
Is living virtue
From a hand
That’s merely
Written

Of the hard
And fleeting nature
Bound
With captive
Choice.

Forget
This whole
Charade –

Our cry
Is best
Unspoken.

My contract
Should be
Ripped.

I think
I’ve seen
Enough.

– J. Pigno