Din

This place is like a hollow gourd

with a seed in it.

tink-tink

Noise.

Reckless, pointless noise

and chatter.

Everyone come and gather

so we can

Blather blather blather.

It’s like an empty

cup of tin.

Rattle, clatter, din.

So loud with empty

you can hardly hear

a thing.

It’s roaring with a vortex

full of void

and bloated

with vacuum.

Blank.

Everybody get together

so we can

talk about the weather

and the feather

that equals to the weight

of all we reach

for.

Stuff and things

and pipes and dreams

and paper people

dancing on

their strings

making

noise noise noise.

Words that measure

all the treasure

that our hearts

and hands

would grasp

might fill up an

ocean liner

(if you type in

12 or finer)

and then float

up like a balloon.

Past the sky and past

the moon.

Fluffy, pillows,

dust and ash,

poof and whisp

and pish

and tosh.

Anything that floats

on breeze

might convey

our heart’s

disease.

That we grasp for

flits of chaff,

and grains of sand

passed through

the hand;

Grasp and cling

and have nothing.

Empty hands.

Oh, what a sorry

song we sing.

A loud and moaning,

groaning,

song we sing,

shaking vacant

fists,

hollow hands

we wring

because we can’t

have that

precious thing.

All as we sit

as heirs

at the table of the King.