E Naughton

Full Of Empty

The strange emptiness of sitting silent,

Sadness? No,

But something of the sort maybe,

As a cloud of sensation,

I receive this world,

The vast everything,

Disguised as nothing,

Connected disconnect,

Like a tree surrounded by forest,

Unable to move,

Casting eyes to the vast loneliness

of endless skies,

The untold equilibrium when sitting silent,

In this strange emptiness of everything.