A Void

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Around which our daily life accretes.

Where eternity in depth and time yawns undefined.

Around which an impressionist pastiche

of the multicoloured aspects of life are spun

in an attempt to enrich the who of who we are.

    And yet, at the centre of the me of being,

taunts the Hag in shadows of where we do not go,

for if we did we would chase her around the corner

and the next, for we cannot catch what we fear to face,

in essence, made by us, to define the who of who we are.

We can chase it to where we are not and find the same emptiness.

But not the who of who we are.

    Each paper chase will take us deeper and deeper

into the soul of our sole existence.

How far to chase it down? For once afoot it leads the way

along a Möbius of a mind that folds us inside out,

and vacillating on the never of inside, the never of out,

we are doomed to fail; unable to delineate the mist, for

as the minutiae fade into insignificance we realise that

we may never net the butterfly, fluttering at our heart.

    Down inside the void of us it is taunting still.

If we could only saddle that stallion of mind

we could soar in the white horses of the sky of self

and look down upon all the petty constructs of life,

and turning to the sun and to the stars we could say:

see there, where I walked in suburbia somnambulant,

where l lived the deceit of the quilted street

of everyone's knitted chapter in the book of life,

where the hole of self is dark down behind the spine

and bookmarked as the page of the thought for today.

    So, free-fall down the chasm of that self-same self

and, bereft of all the confidence of that deceit,

burst into the sunlit world of self-awareness,

a meteor across the blaze of Spring,

carrying a heart resurgent unto the me of me.

    Is it that hole that we fill with our God?

Or is it God in the hole that makes us whole?

Or is it simply a hole without which we are not whole?

Or an alimentary canal where the faeces of life

are recycled endlessly around the elementary vacuum

of a vacuous nothing?

    Zero zilch! Eh?

        Take a look,

            and do let me know.