No title, Nothing.

A solitary ear of corn stands in this now empty field,
We devoured sunlight together,
Extracted nourishment from the soil,
Feasted on water until plump and turgid.

Then you left and I remained,
Where we stood together, I stand alone.
One overripe stalk left unharvested,
A trite agricultural analogy.

A nothing.
A no good.

To be overthrown by a vast army of weeds that will push through,
Surging upwards and throttling what is left.

Death then.
And rotting.

And still I feel glad to be nothing more than the leavings of the worms,
Devoured, now making this field fertile once more,
Just glad to be useful.

But they never tell you the price utility comes at,
Being used and then discarded,
Being left alone.
Being unmade and made into nothing.

At least I served a function,
Fuck you.