And if these lips should mouth a futile void
what colour would that barren closedness be?
If every clear escape route had been cloyed
would hollowness be undone by debris?
Redundant questions plague my unfilled grey
and vacuum-spattered matter with their knives;
while every desolation’s yesterday
spits in the face of countless empty lives.
Thus, if you come my way with barefaced charm
and speak to me of love and hope and dreams
such vacant ploys will not my Hole disarm
nor nullify my vast cavernal screams.
So when I gazed inside my wasteland world
a blank white flag in windless space unfurled.
© Alan Morrison, 2013