What Will You Think of Next

And so it seems that you're breaking down into smaller and smaller reasons
For living what it is you call life, there being so little else
That it could be. Whatever hopes
You might have had for yourself, of somehow proving worthy,
Of so much hoping, seem lost
On a case such as this, where maybe
It's just as well, or else it isn't
And might as well be. Yours is a case as such,
Which could just as well be
Not as such, of a life that is lived in hopes
Of searching its wreckage to prove your theory
That there's more than a little
Of what it isn't
In that which is.
The feeling of hope you have is more than a little the one you don't have.
The question of what comes next is more than a little already next.
The beauty of what you've done, becoming the one you're done with,
Becoming the thought that's coming, when the next thought doesn't come,
Is easy enough to grasp, in the image of hands
Done away with to grasp it, but
What do you plan to call it when thinking is out of the question?
What will you think of next when this is the thought that's next?
What sense will it make to say, in a voice that you've done away with,
In a language that can't help sensing that its meaning has gone away,
That your life is a terrible waste, and if it isn't
It might as well be; if it isn't
Your life is wasted, which is truly
A terrible waste.
Because it seems that you're breaking down into all the more reason to do so
You know that you won't be finished until you don't know that you've stopped
What comes next, if it does come, might well be something different.
What comes next, if it doesn't, might as well be what it's not.