It Holds Nothing
My faint White wardrobe
Opened with two scarlet handles,
There my clothes inside,
Silk, cotton, housing legions of you.
I stand choosing, indecisive,
Combinations cluttering my mind;
Colours and kind blinding those eyes
That powder into black sand
And put space, that deep desert,
Between my right ear and my left.
My head a vacuum: death into life into death.
Frozen.
Meanwhile, yellow-striped moths
Crawl out your mouth and mine too,
Line after line, not a few; trillions.
They eat, feast on evening-suit to the right
And darned mottled cape on the left, even the least
They bring to inexistence, their evening dish
To drape, I wish, the beggar's garb.
I am stood, staring at my
Empty wardrobe, no say left,
I am right naked,
Exposed to exposure
And nothing.
poem by Mark Challenger
Added by Poetry Lover
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