Dark Mass

Unlike the others,
I saw the emptiness before I entered,
But mistook it for a cool, dark place
In which to surrender my senses.
When I hear my breathing,
I know there is life here,
But it is thin and strenuous
Like exertion at altitudes.
And the air here
Is just the water of food.
The sacks are never full,
Yet have to crush themselves empty.
The headstones don’t specify
The year of death–
Only the time when someone flourished–
For life here is not quite
Vehement enough to end,
And what I breathe
Is nothing but
The stale last breaths of others.