In the fields I see Hemingway.
They are flat and rolling,
And altogether empty.
My body cringes to look too long.

The trees are barren.
The surrounding flowers burst. 
The grass bleeds between it all.
The reverberance of everything in life.

I’m reminded of a painting I saw
A few years ago while working in the library.
It was of an open window.
The colors burnt my eyes. 

Upon them I found humanity.
A complete moral ambiguity.
Indifferent to all things,
and hopelessly removed from the world around it.

In some ways I found myself.
To think that maybe it was me 
Behind that window,
Looking at those viscous colors.

And what’s behind me then?
An empty chair.
An empty canvas.
An empty wine glass.

An empty drawer and an unmade bed.
A room stripped nude and a past of no understanding.
Surrounded by unfinished thoughts
And a half-lived life.

More and more I make my way through things
With a growing feeling that I’ve experienced
Too much too fast.
Hours of reading, waiting for apathy to take shape.

The other day I read of a man
Who jumped out of a window in London.
His body tumbling from each story.