This emptiness within, an utter stillness that could,
Would, should remain transfixed by eternity
Not a sunyatian stillness not the perfect void
A void, no, rather devoid
Not a perfect vacuum not even the space
To fill up a space that
Silences and stillness from analysis
Springs nought; not the naught but the knot
And the stillness and the silence in empty hearts
As far from perfection as existence
As far from existence as perfection
From where perfection springs
From the depth of the naughts
This emptiness within, then as still
As far from perfection's existence
As from perfecting existence
Transcends and permeates the fickle uneasy mind
Leaving mind and thought and emotion far, far behind.
