Nothing Is Everything

I pace about like I’m waiting for something.
Comfort is at the door.
Shall I let him in?

I’ve said ten things and haven’t heard one.
Pricey, that- I’ve
never truly
atoned

How am I a hollow gourd
through whom the universe
has poured,
filling to the roots,
and still a beggar
on the street of
heart problems,
still a crier
of hypocritical
oaths?

Oh!

Now I see

I knew it
already

what I want
is withheld

and the rest
is a staring

into
nothing