Nothing.
Something.
Longing for nothing,
but always something.
Something in the nothing
which must still possess a something.
Searching.
Too long now.
Searching, fretting, worrying the outcome.
And for what? On, and on.
That entity which, if something, must
always belong to nothing, even
if there be a hope that
nothing might turn into
something —
Love.
Hollow as that nothing.
Something only for its being spoken
into being. A something made
from nothing, for something,
a feeling
that is nothing
in the end.
End.
Something so far as to be nothing,
unless,
I am to do something
to bring about that nothing
in which case what matter is
that something, that nothing.
She.
Nothing if not something.
Something that, to me, must
perpetually be nothing.
A journey up the mountainside,
searching, fretting, worrying the outcome
that nothing might be something
far more painful than a nothing,
a new beginning from an ending;
Of something
I do not know.
Loss.
Nothing until something,
the most dreadful of them all.
For in that something that was nothing
each turns into nothing, or
perhaps into a something that will
blot out all the rest.
Longing.
That this something might be nothing,
though I know it must be something;
I have nothing more
to lose.
