Is every sense a sentence?  
Is every birth a death  
of emptiness?  

Must we be captive, captivated,  
waiting for our breath in endless,  
breathless steps upon  
the winding road of silence?  

Is this aching, heartbreaking  
anticipation of something,
a world working;
a sensation,  
presentation coming through  
to its unearthing?  

Why does time stretch on
while we wander, squandering
the very truths we’ve clung to  
in our being and becoming?

It’s not every day
I have something to say
or something worth bestowing.
Sometimes, there’s nothing showing,
nothing growing…nothing flowing.

I’ve written “all and open”
over and over again
yet I feel closed from knowing
what is true, where to begin.  

In tumultuous earth,
quaking in memories
I see the death of me;
the rest of me, left empty
in a shell of reverie  

I cannot breathe.

These influences of devotion,
to "shall" and "should" and "would"  and where to be,
are gripping me with apathy  
as I refuse to find my muse  
in emptying the self I’ve come to bleed through.  

Nothing structured,
layaway my pain,
let rest my brain;  
no more contained  
in rage or evanescence;  

no regrets,  
no retrospect,  
no message. 

I’ve been,
and I will be
remembering and breathing;

still believing in moving on  
I’ll reach for the stars
until I burn inside the sun.  

Those days are gone.
I am not Nothing.
Done calling myself nought,
I am becoming.  

Even if I sway,
tarry here and there,
in my own way I’m home  
amongst the air; the wind  
still embraces me, without a care.
No caveat or cross to bear.  

I am bare to night,
tonight.
I swear it, naked.

I am starlight
drinking starlight in.

Candles steady.
I am ready,
but not simply to begin.  

I recognize the moving tides
that crash against my skin;
that fill me  
up from within.  

My world, akin.
My Endless Ocean.