Din

This place is like a hollow gourd
with a seed in it.
tink-tink
Noise.
Reckless, pointless noise
and chatter.
Everyone come and gather
so we can
Blather blather blather.
It’s like an empty
cup of tin.
Rattle, clatter, din.
So loud with empty
you can hardly hear
a thing.
It’s roaring with a vortex
full of void
and bloated
with vacuum.
Blank.
Everybody get together
so we can
talk about the weather
and the feather
that equals to the weight
of all we reach
for.
Stuff and things
and pipes and dreams
and paper people
dancing on
their strings
making
noise noise noise.
Words that measure
all the treasure
that our hearts
and hands
would grasp
might fill up an
ocean liner
(if you type in
12 or finer)
and then float
up like a balloon.
Past the sky and past
the moon.
Fluffy, pillows,
dust and ash,
poof and whisp
and pish
and tosh.
Anything that floats
on breeze
might convey
our heart’s
disease.
That we grasp for
flits of chaff,
and grains of sand
passed through
the hand;
Grasp and cling
and have nothing.

Empty hands.

Oh, what a sorry
song we sing.
A loud and moaning,
groaning,
song we sing,
shaking vacant
fists,
hollow hands
we wring
because we can’t
have that
precious thing.
All as we sit
as heirs
at the table of the King.

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