Why, now, do we speak of nothing? As if
it were tomorrow and news of the bomb
won’t reach us? As if being and nothingness
are the same. And how is it that we justify
our musing – like Nazi guards carrying
hate forward – hiding behind directives
and striped sleeves. Even death cannot
free us from our bondage since it too
has been textured by the sounds of horses’
hooves and Wagons’ wheels and the prick of
Roses’ thorns.
(Even more by the ether of camels’ spirits.)
Why, then, do we speak of nothing? Is it our
vanity? Our cry against the ultimate
power of the truth of nothing? Did
we not become as the gods were – once?
Creators of matter, of life, of death –
Detestable in the eyes of some, digressing
into our own madness. Like the cave dwellers
we call our fathers we’ve returned as once we were,
using our brand of nothing to bash heads and
drone on. Even now I am guilty of the same.
So, why then do we speak of nothing as if
it were tomorrow and news of the bomb
won’t reach us? Do you suppose
the gods once did the same?
KMcGee – 2017
Poems by K. McGee 