When human beings are whole,
He has a mind of his own,
Desires, abilities, needs and thoughts
That I can’t know,
Won’t have access to,
And cannot change to suit me.
Such a simple six letter word,
Yet so sinister in the undercurrents of desire.
It was a rug off from under my feet
To know that I couldn’t tweak just the edges off him.
Almost like my clay pots,
A bit of brushing around the edges;
Maybe a chip here and there.
Nothing too drastic,
That changes the nothing within him;
For at the end,
He was a vessel with a conduit.
And he kept all sorts of things within him.
Thoughts, ideas, desires, dreams,
That would sometimes overflow,
N sometimes seem empty.
And I poured and I poured
The hole gaped at me,
Threatening to pull me into
A cycle of unending guilt,
“Did you create to leave behind emptiness?”
A dagger of accusation cutting right through my unsure hands.
And I poured and I poured.
Is an unfilled vase ever empty?
For he stood just the same,
When I poured in water or sand.
All that changed, was his voice.
A muffled, quickly stifled thump,
A shaky, quiver of unripe melody.
And one day,
I heard him speak when he was empty;
Loud, booming sound
Of clear tenor and far carrying pitch.
It was The voice.
We’re just two seldom-full vessels.
Yet we’ve never been less empty.