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The Voice

When human beings are whole,

They’re shocking!

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.

And today,

We’re just two seldom-full vessels.

Yet we’ve never been less empty.

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