The Void

no—floating

in fog; no thought, not even that but the void.

--

An internal buzzing,

a hum deep in my bones,

regrettable, unfathomable low frequencies.

So hopelessly close, yet

never are caught.

--

The sky isn’t blue,

but empty,

just never-ending.

A blank sheet of white.

Colors cascading down,

as half-dreams do

just prior to breaking dawn.

--

There are sounds—no,

there is laughter made internal,

but change the wind,

or perhaps frustration.

--

Voices go round my ears,

and ghosts appear

where shadows are weak.

--

I don’t have to look,

or in any way feel the outline

of things stationed before me.

Each and every thing is present

only here,

in the ravenous arms of air,

in the intense, weighty expanses of words

without verbal structure or poems.

--

I may stay here for eternity,

without complaint.

But I do not want to.

I want to go somewhere,

and so, I have already gone.

--

Or more accurately,

perhaps,

I never was anywhere at all.