I feel rather hollow today.
Not hollow like a bone, its marrow sucked clean; not in that great spiritual sense
—the shaman awaiting a message; wind blowing through—reverberating.
No.
Not an echoing mouthpiece.
Not some divine conduit for transcendence—not hallowed.
That is something altogether different.
Perhaps in time, some prominent part of me will be chosen next to represent,
elected in some conclave of the inner-self.
Oh! to possess such a consecrated concave.
I wait for white smoke…
No.
My hollowness is empty like a promise; or a laugh—brittle and humorless.
I resemble one of Eliot’s men—albeit, without company to lean on.
The wise do keep their distance.
But my head is not stuffed with straw, nor am I the miller’s daughter.
I spin no gold for kings. I’ve not the aid of Herr Rumpelstilt.
Short of silk or flaxen strands for even myself
—I’ve only space to hold them.
I am sunken.
Dull and muted.
This void—a bowl awaiting alms; am I too proud to bow before?
Too stubborn to believe…
Would a dove visit where even crows would leave?
Like Murphy sang: the most fearful hide deep inside.
What were I to lament; repent—oh mortal me!
Would this hollowness finally then cease?
Or might I transform this cavity into a den?
See now a burrow, where once a gaping hole had been
—alter import at the altar of within;
name it warren, a womb to keep me safe: hollow’s twin.
Until I am ready to be reborn unto myself;
prepared once more to begin…
Might I make new meaning from this feeling; adjusted worth
—fill myself up again…
Why wait for peripheral validation? Rather, view this impression as a gift.
A burrow is not barren, but holds occasion—my own awakening.
Lungs, though empty, merely await breath; a single cry or mantra in the making.
When at last, my voice emerges—even if shuddering and quaking,
it will not be quiet and meaningless.
I felt rather hollow today, but I may have been mistaken;
Could this simply be my gestation
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