I know him as an empty abyss
I know him as an it
Any truths I throw at it
- any shattering analysis -
it swallows down its abyss,
and yet it complains
about an unrelenting world
and projects its void
at the living
around its death
It's in dire need
of a Jungian analysis,
a diamond-sharp therapist
to atone for all its empty words,
its empty world,
and its mocking of all
that makes humans humane
It craves atonement
for hollow words,
for un-wed wives,
all its unborn kids,
unwritten novels,
un-sculptured sculptures,
unpainted paintings,
never scribbled poems,
all untravelled journeys,
un-fucked intercourses,
un-dead suicides
It's stillborn and stilldead
and non-existent
and rudely extinct
A demon tied up in its it-ness;
a hollow chamber of death