<--- It is a lifeless statue, whose eyes, devoid of pupils,
pretend to gaze and show you
thoughts that you know
a stone cannot have.
It is an old book,
whose pages bear lines written in
ink that has long since eroded from the page.
It is a crooked and worn door, standing in a doorway of a ruined building,
with but one wall,
so that entrance and exit are
but hypotheticals entertained in a reality long since past.
It is in the aether of space between two thoughts
but never finds solace even on the tip of one's tongue.
It is in a
tile of every ceiling,
occurring but one after the one on which you lost count and must start over.
It is in the last ounce of consciousness that ferries you to the land of sleep,
yet it is also the invisible lines that help link stars into constellations.
It cannot be seen
when the light is on,
for it always escapes to
the edge of blurry darkness,
and so it is just beyond the stretch
of the horizon visible at any time.
It is in dreams of those with it but encompasses the nightmares of those without it.
It is the face you think you see
when your tears have temporarily blinded you,
the face which vanishes as soon as you come back to your senses.
and if it is everything, then one need not take notice of it.
and if it anything at all, then what in this world could it be? --->