• The wasteland in my mind
    holds its own sort of dark beauty;
    a broken world
    (or many?)
    the empty pieces
    fractured and alone
    all man's work reduced
    to a puddle of molten slag.

    The hollow caverns of my soul
    devoid of your cleansing light
    because I won't let it in
    (if you would ever even offer)
    afraid of what I might see in those
    forsaken chasms--
    what I might have let myself become
    An abhorrent monster, wearing the face of
    a lost poet