Empty

In the center of the storm sits the empty man
His movements placid and unhurried
An apathetic calm settles across his bone-white irises
The future is gossamer, shredded by the slightest breeze
The past is stone, obdurate and suffocating
He raises his bed-sore covered arms
Knowing that he can break this eternal inertia
With nothing more than a solitary clap
It is too late for the empty man
His skin, loose and unblemished, wears him now
It is tangled with the stitchings of his broken throne
The past is prologue. The future is prologue.
The empty man sits in the same moment
Unchanging, Unmoving, Unraveling