Void

Empty moments.

Silent crescendo.

Liminal existence.

Once upon a time,

In the days when the world was green

And no stain on the moon was seen

Noise.

Constant noise.

Vibrant colours,

Fractal thoughts,

Pursued forever,

Winding down and down,

Following the never shrinking golden spiral.

Laughter and tears,

Joy and sorrow,

Once filled a space made empty,

By the long passing of the years.

Slow was the draining,

The dying of the colour and the light.

Shattered fragments once remained,

Dreams of wild lands yet untamed.

Under often wearied feet,

Years pass like the inexorable turning,

Of pages one cannot read.

Should one's motion cease,

The pages' speed does increase,

Even should one stop and stare,

Fix one's mind's eye on what should not be there,

On the empty,

On the lonely.

On the solitary time gazing into the vibrant space,

Made empty.

Made hollow.

Made echoing.

And those echoes are to be feared.

Flighty things, those surviving fragments,

The ones that survived the emptying.

Dangerous thoughts,

Broken wishes.

Beyond the space.

The empty space.

The hollow space.

The haunted space.

Life goes on,

Does it not?

Yet once one has gazed,

Once they have stared,

Will they not lose the feeling,

Abandon the sense,

To be scared?

Pages turn,

Beyond the void,

Feet follow the paths of life.

Beyond the void,

Without the light behind their eyes,

Until they can break the ties,

That bind them to that void.

A walking doll.

A marionette on cut strings.

Fresh cuts that always sting,

While the self is lost and bound,

To the void and the echoes,

That float around,

Waiting to whisper poison,

Hiding in the dark and,

Empty moments.

A

Silent crescendo.

Unheard as they pass from place to place,

In their,

Liminal existence.

Once upon a time