poetry

the void

“All sins are attempts to fill voids.” ~ Simone Weil

It seems apropos on an eve like this. Words attempt to hold bold notions within their letters’ slender-shadow walls, yet the notions escape into the ether, filling the lungs of those who dare breathe their truth, or their poison. But of truth and poison, is there any difference? Might we perish of each, or of both combined? And of sin, who is to say what is sin– except the sinner, and those silent gods trapped within words? Still, with all the sin, and all the ethereal conjecture, the void– oh, it remains, a steady companion– waiting, until in the end, it takes what it has always owned.

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Eric

I've come to write.

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