Notes To My Soul

futility

Chunks of exhausted mead bleed,
pile upon a table of torment,
where each word dies,
while my heart lies,
sparing the mind its futility.
The long ascent to nowhere
ends here, for now,
for another day.

Tattered leftovers,
notes to the soul cry.
Perpetual purgatory
mocks me every day.
I have something to say,
just...no one will listen,
as I'm heaved further,
nearer to the waste can.