Reverence

One of my favorite poems
I called Zero Reverence.
That says a little something
about where I am at. 
I went through my music
from as far back as I had time
well after dark the other night;
it was all sad. I resist deference
as a preference. I resist preference
and its preponderance. As such,
I breathe much of my air through
an unembraceable crutch, lunging 
for lounging and scrounging my
longing. When I crack, nihilism
threatens annihilation. Yet another
not me burying my bones before 
my dread is dead. Goals sound
like damp holes -- guaranteed
mold where one me can call 
my others sold. Too cold for
my current hold on my 
current level of bold. 
I am a fool without
gold. Am I old? The
questions of health and
wealth are broader than
my stitched side. I would
rather hide than hide. Yet
another shadow of a shallow
preference. Can I build a fear
from the available dirt and sticks
and leaves? That sounds like grieving,
a thieving of happiness by the cost of
lost harmony. There is the source of 
the lack: a clack instead of a rhythm,
a ruse in place of a music, a wraith
more believable in my hallucinations
than faith in something serious.