Poem

And what means this force,

half picture, half word and half guess'd,

what do you intend,

wherefore the need

for quiet anguished feeling?

It spills out of you from nothingness

from the singular, from the diverse,

here, you take ash, there the flame,

you scatter and would delete and protect them.

You blanch, you cannot grasp it all,

bound it, contain it,

about this and that,

you remain lost,

entranced but also mistrusting.

By day and by night

you are drawn,

also on Sundays, you chip away at it

and wear the stylus to a nub,

then, you leave it - it is: the Essence.