The Void



I turned the TV off tonight, and from a quiet chair

It asks me how I plan to save my spirit from despair.



A crumpled dishtowel on the floor looks like a headless corpse;

The tuned guitar and stereo, arms folded 'cross their chests,

Like granite Aztec gods in judgement, fix their frigid gaze

Upon my anxious tapping foot, as I reach out for Nachos.