by Richard Vince

It sounds like empty air: this feeling,
This knowing that something isn’t right.

Somehow, the whole is less than
The sum of its parts; surely that means
That something is missing?

Where there was once a kernel,
Now there is nothing. Layer upon layer
Of protection surrounding emptiness;
Protection with nothing to protect.

Is this all I am?
It feels as though I am not even
The germ of an idea; merely
A collection of skin and bones
With nothing to give them life.

I move, I breathe, but
That is not the same as living.
I can think and be oh so clever, but
That is not the same as living.

Somehow, I have filled my life
With so many things that
I no longer have room for me.

There seems to be plenty going on,
But it’s all just noise: it echoes and
Reechoes and expands until
It fills everything and displaces
All memories of what went before.


Posted on 11/30/2013
Copyright © 2024 Richard Vince

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 11/30/13 at 04:59 PM

so much to chew on, so much to mull, contemplate, to love. which is all one expects or requires of an ode. as would have one think and feel and love and contemplate an actual life which one has little time for these days. to feel, to love and to be loved beyond all the confusion and malaise to which modern living makes us prone and succumb to the contraptions that supposed progression places on our laps, to tinker, to dote on, to give our full attention and allegiances to, which would have us divert from the full spectrum of ourselves, and our innermost feelings, the actualization of which these contraptions/distractions prevent or would have us disavow.

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