Dead Poem by Kevin Maroney

Spiraling, swaying, through the daunting deep,
as you sit there, saying, something so sweet.
You wish and you sing and you mock your heart, shout,
but you can't wish hard enough to blot the dark out.

Not totally, severely, as you stretch with hands lain bare,
your soul to the world but a thing at which to stare.
You worry only in whispers, for fear others will hear,
that beneath you, inside you, the void calls ever near.

Something is watching, but not with eyes of matter,
for nothing is nothing, as your hopes and whims do shatter
as you save yourself in fantasy, you can't help but think
that no matter your conjuring, no idea can save you from the brink.

Dead.