Rattling around,

Rattling around,

Empty on the inside...

There is nothing in here…

It is a statement, not a fact.

Nothing is a word and not a metaphor,

Not even a concept.

It is a blunt descriptor for so much

Using so little,

The emptiness it leaves in the saying,

Barely covers the gaps in its meaning.

Nothing is a failure before it even starts.

It is frail shorthand,

Conveying even less than little,

And features in conversation

As a convention.

If we stop to think

Its meaning would stretch

So far beyond our reach,

Its lack of ending,

The deepening of its progress,

Would be heartbreaking.

Even emptiness is relative

A vacuum never completely sealed.

And to understand the depths

We would truly need to trawl

To reach its rock bottom

We would fall for ever.

And that will never happen,

As forever will not end.

None of these things mean

Very much of anything.

And say little of solitude

What it truly means to be alone.

On the inside,

Where the space is even wider

Than the enclosing walls,

That shift and change as they inch closer,

Or sometimes move away.

The distance that falls between

Everything and nothing

Is unimaginable.

And yet the experience

Of gaining something,

Out of thin air

Remains a daily occurrence

For all

Who care to think about it.