Nothing

The grinding, crushing weight of wailing breath and gnashing teeth.
It seems as though a petty joke,
Wearing meaning’s mindless yoke,
And pulling on the reigns of hope,
To find them dangling – attached to nothing.
No love, no life, no death, no grief, no pain, no joy, no spark no fire.
No I or is, or being in the real.
But a picture of a delicious meal,
That taunts and teases, cannot feel,
Cannot taste, cannot heal,
The would created by itself,
The conditions of a conditioned self,
The reality of what is real.
Nothing.
A dull knife cannot cut to the marrow of existence,
To create a real expression,
To cause a real feeling.
It just gnaws away at fading flesh,
Revealing no sickness, providing nothing but a false sensation of sensation itself.
And in all the pseudo-pain and empty joy,
With all the gyrations of a discarded toy,
Nothing.