Natura Abhorret Vacuum

Natura Abhorret Vacuum

Still, I sit
Alone, so empty,
Waiting for the morrow
Sun to rise upon my sorrow.

Just now, does it dawn
Upon me that I have
No song.

Then shall I sing
Of song itself?
Can songs of poverty
Become my wealth?

Reflecting on reflection,
I shall set about to polish
Those beggars which impoverish,
Mirror on mirror,
A fun-house of infinite regress,
My profiles trailing off to points
Euclidean at best.
My emptiness,
That point which has no part,
I,
Poor pundit with no point.

“Nothing comes of nothing.”
“Signifying nothing!”
I build my pot of shards
Stolen from antiquity’s
Celebrated bards.
Pot? A Grecian Urn,
Odeless in a land so un-Hellenic,
An earthen vessel
Never to hold treasures,
Funereal urn of ashes
Barren of any Phoenix Ascension.
But “Nothing of nothing comes”
Is a something indeed!

And, how avoid
That longing to be filled
With words so simple
Yet profound,
Yearning to be heard,
Seeking the sublime
But finding the absurd?

Ah, to be that poet
Making History of time
And monument of moment!
And why?
Because I am nothing
And no one.

Proclaiming my nothingness
With eloquence:
“Nature hates a vacuum”:
One maxim, pithy,
Tomb for my self-pity.

(written December 2000)

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