emptiness is an illusion.
it is the welcome mat of vagueness
at the front door of soul searching.
it’s a thought-form’s reflection,
vacantly staring back
at conclusion’s wasted effort at surmise.
meaning is the blood of the self-illusionists.
belief provides the lack of real depth perception.
recognition, in blatant denial, seals the deal.
emptiness becomes the consuming drug
of profound spiritless vacancy.
yet it doesn’t exist
only the claim that it does
is by one bent on expectations rewarded.
holding firm to that conviction,
that therefore sees and senses
as if nothing definite or confirming is happening.
therefore this crime of declared clarity
becomes the vast affront of emptiness.
where by the illusion
is the work of the artist in the first person,
as the overwhelm of expectations denied,
the limited bind of perceptual pursuit,
and the addiction to the fate of conclusions
upon one’s immediate presence and purpose
thus an empty life, listless, disheartened,
soullessly in the wander
holding to a colorless flame
that does not feel
for the invisible warmth of being
but poses ongoing with the bones of tragic emptiness
and no sufficient evidence to prove otherwise . . .
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