Naught

A poem.

Naught is known by no name;
No name was it ever given;
Still aroar—the uproar,
Coiling confusions—
Slept all along,
Sanctums full of poisons;
Home-grown, born-brawn,
Want the whys and the wherefores;
What do they ask for?
A simple period?

But alas!
They will choke on their own poison
Of their own sins
Of denomination and personification,
Since the sins since the ushering seed,
Miscarried with the naught-knife—
Naught-blade—an odd non sequitur;
Slit apart, sewed back into shape;
For naught—a Serpentine threat;

Blessings denied—
Nothing left beyond the wasteland of hope;
Everything left intact in Sunyata,
The circling garden of inception;
The Seventh ether saved by Sifr;
Still aroar—the uproar—
Slept all along—all the time—
Yet never alone;
Never ended since the Babylon;
Practical possession,
Nine was not enough;
In need of more—
More of the naught
To fill the null of the primal greed—
Had to be reeled in;
Thoughts came
Constructing and Deconstructing;

Indeterminate form,
Logic imprisoned naught,
Cellmate—the infinity;
Between them—a shattered glass-wall
Framed between nothing and everything—

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