Space remains void,
not like the heavy frames
and melted matter,
it hangs on ethereal nails
like the clicking clock
almost predictable.
Time.
Can its void be filled
or is it never empty?
Preferable, unattainable
emptiness
displaced
if by one brief
moment
to taste transcendent truth
becomes the cherished reward,
the sustaining gift.
1 year ago
2 comments:
Hi, Mary, this is Bryce. I've been trying to get in touch with you. I lost your phone number when I got my new phone. Will you call me when you get a chance? (My number didn't change.)
--Bryce
Oh, and I liked the poem!
--Bryce
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