21 November 2010

The Empty Space



Oh the futility of reaching out
to take another's hand.
How vast the open sky!

The yawning gap between us isn't space,
or time,
or distance.
It's something else entirely.
Something huge,
and invisible,
impenetrable.

(Though sometimes a strain of music
or a remembered word
trickles through.
Or is that just an echo
bouncing off the bleakness?)

What is out beyond the edge?
The action is completed.
Those beyond need rest,
not perpetual prodding.
They've had their day, their say.

Bach's notes fit together like a complex puzzle.
Don't add pieces or take any away.
What is there is complete.

Write your own music,
speak your own unuttered words.
Then when you spring into the familiar,
forgotten ether,
You'll have something to talk about
in your own voice.
Grow into your words.
Even now there are those who strain to hear.

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