Two Towering Vacancies

Don’t try to rush me.

No, not floating, not aimlessly hoping to scrape the shore

of comfortable.

Trapped between two towering vacancies

and I prefer to remain between.

No, not fickle, but not naive:

See the gates of Gilead gathering dust!

But see, beyond, a myriad of calcified trusts!

So doubt requests a new dimension;

Not mind, not soul, not mine, certainly

It’s grown too old.

Moss, on a stone, at some point knows

The stone to be a mountain, and then a hillock

And then but a stone.

And the vacancies grow more vacant—

Filling up with ephemeral volumes of all human knowledge

Which then turn to dust like Gilead.

No, not cynicism!

No, not obstinance!

The dimension is hope:

A mathematical coping mechanism for when you read “truth”

Scrawled upon opposing doorframes.

But doors are dead, and winds whistle through their cracks.

The words you read are friends whispering at your back,

Increasingly infantile, petty, and washed out

By an incandescent wasteland

Into which the towers collapse—

And you are left with God.

I am drawn, I am drawn

To speak with God—

A pilgrim,

He walks with me through the wreckage, amused at the wreckage

In tune with the shattering pains

No! Not callous,

Though these carpenter’s hands draw blood.

O thoughtless self, be not afeared of the wasteland.

Glittering shards from my crumbling towers,

Tinted with blood and rippling adumbrations:

Safely we watch,

Having scraped upon the sureness of

Time, plodding time.

No one was hurt; they were vacant.

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