Empty
Empty.
Space.
Time.
The sound of the sea.
The sound of your heart.
Little else.
Empty.
Quiet.
Not hours,
days.
Two or three will do.
just enough time
for the poison to seep out
and your truth learns
to breath again,
and you become
beautifully
empty.
About this poem.
I work hard to empty myself, because that is when I function best, ready to listen, absorb, do my best work. Meditation. Prayer. Pauses in my day and my life. And every so often, time away, completely away.
The picture was taken in Rye, NH.
Tom
