Akin to It

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There is a small child
An insignificant, tiny star
Stark white, almost sickly pallid
With hair as dark as Night’s cloak
A glorious and terrible creature of dreams

It seems almost as though she screams
Yet she is silent and without stir
In her glazed, averted eyes there is nothing
No thought consumes her like entangling ivy
A deadly contrivance to be sure

Observing her passivity, safely distant
She heeds no fool that draws upon her
They do not even perceive her
Sitting there in her lack
Lack of what, I am unable to judge

I am compelled to advance towards this void
Reeling recollections rather than thoughts swarm
But there is rather more to it, empathy is stirring me
Ardent glance and step catch her constant vigil
Hence, an unforeseen alteration occurs

Intensity between us, felt rather than heard
Yet I am obligated to shield my ears
A piteous lament anguishes the mind
Though neither word nor cry is uttered
I plead her to cease though I do not speak

Relentlessly I question, receiving no reply
Spiders seem to be pricking up my spine
A feeling of being akin to this spiteful It
Takes possession of the beat less heart
My revulsion gives way to comprehension

Lying is an unattainable delusion
Unavoidable gaze pierces broad armor
Secrets will not pass amid us
Though they are heaped, bleeding around us
With striking clarity the eyes search me through

“Do not seek to grasp the vastness
Desire silence, revel in it
Cast off sentiment, impulsivity to care
Slumber deeply, thoughtful recluse
Be purged of bonds and ties”

I apprehend only that she illustrates me
Holding a filigree mirror while her eyes taunt
No compassion but understanding flows forth
She is blissful nothingness
And I am hollow





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