the plaint

This poem seems haunted to me,
somehow. It feels like I never
loved it enough, like I wrote it
and just rushed on.

Now it sends out its plaint as it always does,
as it always has, maybe always
would

- but with just enough

of

an emptiness,

Echoing through the spaces and lines, that maybe
I could have filled up. Or tried,
I guess

if I could,
I should've

at least with lies