eclipse.

there is pleasure
in utter
uncommunable
failure.
there is pleasure
in lonesomeness
and quietness
and pitch, stale
uninterrupted solitude
there is pleasure
in loss
loss of possibility
intellect
self appreciation
loss of love
that hardly was their
there is pleasure
in my bleeding words
purged out
unappreciatedly
there is pleasure
in solar
lunar
eclipse
in comprehension
of never again
mattering.
but life
is biotic
and displeasuring
and it is not
made up
of patched up
failure
every now
and every then
I will taste
the deceptive taste
of hope and success
then fall again
onto an eclipse.