The Art of Apathy

I am dwelling in a place of unfound desire

A stagnant dimension of endless apathy.

For I see no further need to compose

Images and thoughts for even myself.

Whose soul is touched by my words?

Whom among those I call friend or more

Cares of the word play I put down

For their pleasure or that of a stranger?

Does any companion offer praise or drink

If I was to write in a way to please them?

Is there a woman whom my words can touch

That they desire more elegant sentences?

Does anyone wish to provoke my heart’s thirst?

The flesh of a female taunting my desire

With promises to reveal to my hungry vision

A glimpse of her body posed in lace and satin?

Is there anything I can be offered to inflame

My inspired desire, my promise of passion,

So my words can once more flow like water

On another’s world of thought and emotion?

I am in the Hell of a singular creation of words,

A nihilistic rebirth of one idea repeating itself.

A cage I have built and locked myself inside of,

Where the key to my freedom is held by others.

Others who care far less than I

If I ever write with

Passion

Again.