I wrote this poem sometime ago and forgot about it. Finding it again, I think it has some merit. It seems to fit in with my last post about love. Ultimately, if we manage to journey to the outer limits of experience, the place beyond words and concepts – as the mystics once did – we will find an emptiness (or nothingness) overflowing with potential. That potential becomes our life. Maybe we need to make that journey sometimes. It is easy to go with science. But science removes potential and replaces it with possibility. There is a huge difference between these two. Potential is creative, possibility is a game of logic.
Empty Hand
strange to think how Emptiness
is full of stuff more empty still
oozing something real nonetheless
ink is not quite blood
suffocates the page, but offers
hope nonetheless
love is like this
hands build the world; a hullabaloo, a song
sung on the radio. this is not life
though, but fills the time nonetheless
strange to think how love wears our skin,
how life is nothing more
than a hand trying to plug an overflow
of something real
nonetheless
WriteShed 