All That's Left

Is there a sign somewhere
of my existence, any semblance of life,

besides this everlasting numbness?

Did I ever have a dimension

a depth, may be, even if unfathomable

besides this make-believe veneer?

Have the eons just passed
with no impression, forget a trace
besides this blasé apathy?

Maybe there was something, may be not

all that's left, is a hint of moisture

in the corner of the eye.