On the edge of blackness, deep despair.
Within Beating, Pulsing, Pulsing
I sense it, feel it, swirling, undulating,
touching the pulse of my heart in beckoning waves.
Blackness alive in not knowing why.
Why do you call me? Why do I answer?
The questions I ask in eternal circle,
Each answer raising the same questions.
The edges of my mind fray.
My heart Beating, Pulsing, Pulsing
The lack of light is rich in its color.
Questions follow answers exploding with bleakness.
Suppression exhilarating in the fight.
As the blackness dances I see the beauty.
If the edges of my mind fray there is still more.
The threads of my soul reach out.
Blackness unbounded hypnotizes.
Swaying Beating, Pulsing, Pulsing
There is no end to it.
This poem, for me, explains the need for poetry, for art in general. It reflects my acceptance that science cannot begin to explain the truth of existence until it is recognized that the truth of existence may be found outside of a purely scientific approach.
