Poem: Nothing

Vanity is the exile of the weirdo, breathing is for the damned,

screaming from the bottom of our souls is a desperate voice

we can’t hear, it says “help,” or it says “torture,” or it says the names of virtuous gods

we’ll never know, so crack a can, take a hit, and tomorrow will come

sooner than you thought it would.  This is a lesson

from the great god of nothing, as it rules everything having no eyes,

no hands, no voice, no identity

other than that it is not not, all else bursting

from within will bring a cataclysm.  So pray to this genderless mass

by going home, or stay out, and kill yourself, or build a church

with an orgy chamber in the basement, where the priests wear nothing

save gloves of two different colors, red and gold or blue and green

because the god of nothing knows it doesn’t matter, or maybe it does.

Poem: Nothing

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