Paul Willason Poet Free verse

The Only Thing You Have

There's an empty space
you carry around and mostly ignore.
It doesn't cause much pain
when thoughts are elsewhere
or you are given facts to explain 
away the ache. Nothing more
than an abandoned space
once occupied by gods
whose ghosts danced 
in the flickering light 
of an ancestral cave,
a residual hollow left
in the evolution of the brain.

Yet it lingers, a constant niggle
not confined to any one locale.
You try and fill it
with all kinds of tripe, 
an endless stream of goods 
carried on conveyors disappear
down its throat. Fictions
baked in the ovens 
of the human mind may 
satisfy for awhile but all
eventually evaporate.

There's still an empty space
you carry around that you can't 
seem to fill.
It sits at the center
of your human lot, 
a nagging need to be cultivated
and treasured
in your deepest quiet.
It's the only thing you have
that draws you towards
the shapeless gravity
of an unknowable God
or nothing at all.

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