The Search

We crawl toward the the light, unconscious embryonic infants, Insects confined to a basement, eternal unlighted. Cracks Cracks in the edges meaning leaks sealed up The interior of an empty box cannot be defined. The ocean churns great source Twirling strands of all consciousness snapping at my feet. Shadows might conceal more than the light knowledge. Nevertheless if we call it hidden, who does the hiding? The dark may be denser than the airy, substanceless interior which cannot be defined. Nevertheless The insects like crawling earth Tunnel Twist and turn and fall dutifully into marching order unaware There is no path to follow. A million sheets of metal expand in the sun. Measurement falters when form swells and squeezes; Like the hand of God reflected light tugs at the swells Threatening to rip away our wet formless blanket Exposing The pockmarked hollow face. We could dismantle God and construct him Better In our image. Faster, easier, simpler. My head floats filled with the sightless unweight Small and large distances are no measure When I hold the smallest blinking insect in my palm. If I cup in my hands a seed of creation shards of eternal pinpoints of emptiness Where should meaning hide? Marching when there is no path is redefined movement. And there is no path.