Under shades of mounting dialectic claims,
Irresolute pricks punch holes of absurdity,
And like tinctures on white planes,
Draw me hesitantly to Permenides study.
Instinctually, I watch sketches of illusions
And clouds of emptiness where ‘nothing’ inhabits.
Is my future nothing; mere delusions?
Is imbroglio the preserve of hermits?
Is it foolish that to the study of nothing, I endeavor?
I labor, for my past is a cemetery of experiences;
Mundane somethings that rob me of the fervor
Of pure thought and a discourse with virginal essences.
I think of nothing, but being conscious of something,
I refuse ‘nothingness’ a name and think not at all.
A prelude to fatuity maybe, or a trifling
That my experiences have been eaten by time’s fall.
But why should there be something rather than nothing?
Is nothing an object of thought or void’s wails?
Is nothing a figure of speech or existence’s clothing?
Is it a bong in silence’s backyard or Infinite’s trails?
I shed off the linguistic strings of ‘nothing’ being ‘lack’,
And bounce on philosophia’s springs and ask ‘not-being’
To light the blurring shades of history’s back,
While evading Monist’s distractions of probable beings.
Poor of a single plenum on which a cartographer’s skill
May be twisted to chart a map of knowledge on nothing,
I accept the multiplicity of plenums and shrill
As Leucippus postulates dangle on fraying strings.
Nature abhors a vacuum, we assume
And tire to mark motion and change in space:
A void is the twin sister of a vacuum
And all join hands peacefully in existence’s lace.
Casually, ‘nothing’ lolls in reality’s attic,
Existing as an independent plenum,
Weaved deftly in the intricate fabric
Of all that there is; change, motion, or datum.
Thence, God knowing all in advance,
Mould something from nothingness;
A circular argument in philosophia’s parlance,
But a logical absurdity that basks by the door of madness.
Richard Copyright 2012.