is a constructed idea too.
My mind is running,
Like an army of toothpicks.
Have these words formed me?
Or am I the reason for their existence?
Are all the poets suffering too?
In their confusion : and
moments of liberation.
Transgressing the path
that is already fixed.
I know not
where the stars emerge from
In this holy scape
I know not
what creates matter.
Repeatedly ,
I dwell on this conflict.
A paper bag is empty
But its
also filled with the emptiness.
I hope this paradox moves you,
for it is what it is.
The fire can't burn a hole in the water.
Water cannot create an abyss.
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