Gust

The emptiest cup,
always the loudest.
It ripples
like the rustic spin
of a tornado
carrying relics
of embarrassment,
mediocratic gusts.

Words written by yours truly,
with
empty self assured rhetoric
that faded into
the pages
of years passed with
teenage angst.

Crumple the cup
and its shallow arrogance
to forge substance
and
rue the day
when the ink submerges
and brushes against the surface,
a tender, shrouding blue mist.

Molten ash dust
like fire curving metal
to carve a trajectory
to send that tornado
off course into oblivion,
splitting into particles
unifying an opaque
nothingness.

For you do not deserve this
this sorry entry into the canon,
a sleepless stupor into
the gallery of vain epiphanies.

Collect those relics, dust them up, and try again.