Do the children imagine it’s a door?  If so ,  to where?  
I can  see the  Old men lamenting it as some sort of  warning , but
failing to recollect entirely.
   Lovers, sometimes, mistaking it as something they feel
a need to fill ,
or trying to force it to become a  shelter.
  But no one carries away the same story after standing before it.
Those with  the fleeting courage to face it
These shapes in the world
stepped aside.

An absence, that draws
air leans differently there,
             palpable,
   as if even silence forgets
why it started
or how to stand.
To approach and look in.
  speak, to it with an unsteady  voice
returning
  broken,
smaller, as if ashamed its self .
Others refuse to stand near it at all, afraid of the way the edges keep their secrets sharp.
          Is it not empty , or emptiness ?   Was nothing ever something ?
That much is certainly   uncertain.

In the mystery,
does it wait ?
As if wanting and waiting   were its only language.

And can those  who manage to leave it behind
find themselves walking differently ,
lighter, or heavier, depending on what they thought they learned ?

Neither teaching or the teacher.
A space
wherein sits what we think of as nothing.
In reality we can’t perceive what is there but, it’s not empty
only our desire for it
to be .