Vanitas Still-Life by Edwart Collier (1697)
Who is my friend when I have none.
Who shall stick by my side when I'm all alone.
Driving backwards into the multitude of colourless.
When I'm forcing myself into a willful heavy drone.
My books and my music can only serve me awhile.
What then, after they be depleted.
Services to me shall be rewarded but who would care.
Lost in the depths of loneliness, unreachable, irritated.
Shooing away any cause of comfort that may come my way.
Choosing instead to drown myself into heavy decibels of sound.
Losing myself in my ineptitude at what I do.
My expression is a contour of lines and a deep frown.
Everything seems a burden, everyone seems to leer.
Laugh at my unhealthy disposition.
And make fun of the broken wailing inside me.
As I watch them in silence and a spark of recognition.
I have visited these times too often.
But now become too used to the carefree languor.
With nothing to drive me now, the loneliness had crept within.
With nothing for me to hold tight, wrath bent over me ever closer.
With nothing in mind, I began to write.
Meaningless words, shapeless colours, colourless hues.
My gray brain forming an enticing cave of safety.
I return to it, writing about nothing, my wandering mind let loose.