of every no-thing

And so I return to the machine
of every no-thing and golden
oblivion--I step forward
watching past and future recede--
a chilling wind on my perception
mind--I am a battered hopeless
shell losing more of myself
everyday--decayed--
but is that right or wrong?
sometime--often times--
the wrong pieces tear at me,
I'm forgetting where they
begin or how much they know,
if it is they know at all--
without memory or peace,
there is no goal but to
forget in sublime failure
the reason--the cause--
the foundation of all things
being one thing but now many
sad individualized separate things--

And so I return to the machine
of every no-thing and golden
oblivion each night to confess
my sins