That was nothing

I feel nothing
Everything indeed dies
And so has my called feelings
Boring all of this
I should’ve stuck to pretending
Because at least what is apparent
May mean something
Nothing stirs
I am not to bother you any longer
Any languor any clamour
I am to give you up forever
Stoop low, there is no such thing
As the ideal
If I want perfection
I shall get perfection
Not in the form of a fraud
You and I are mere pretenders
Charlatans at best
Devoid of substance
Without any consequences
I shall forge my own path
Without you my dear
Because now nothing matters
Mother is at hand if anyone
Decides to lend me a hand
It will not be yours
Shoo begone
In the end it is
my Rilke
My prodigy who remains
Faithful to me
Where were you
Clinging to indecencies
Bridging impossibilities
Singing stupidities
Flinging on spectacles that dazzle
Stupefying at best.
John Cleese can eat my foot.