Holes
by Odin Roark

Minds fail miserably at imagining nothing,
yet so many sleep soundly with their nothingness.

There’s always something to fantasize over,
especially when there doesn’t seem to be anything
capable of stimulating the mind away from the stuckedness
of man’s insufferable reality.

Holes of all kinds provide food for hungry intelligence,
for they always lead to somewhere,
even when appearing empty like a black hole
leading only to an undefined darkness.

One so often freezes up when realizing a hole
in his or her personality,
intellect,
memory,
and especially,
the sensitive heart.

Yet…

Imagination thrives on such gaps and spaces,
especially the ever so common perforations
occurring often in ones romantic journey,
where emotion bounces around in that unexpected and
cavernous tunnel with haunting echoes of the past
until a new infatuation becomes
the unanticipated new hole waiting to happen.

So many holes surround us,
from dawn to dusk.

So called friends,
mostly holes.

So called lovers,
likely holes,

Clinging relatives,
irrefutable holes.

Imagination weeps at a person’s
unwillingness to toy with the “what if?”
the belligerent refusal to pause,
listen,
look,
feel,
then conjure the possibilities.

Acquaintances may be a last hope
to prove factual attention worthy of attention,
even it but temporary before they too
slide into the “friend and relative” void,
where imagination awaits its turn to create a reward
to help stifle life’s often unforgiving reality.

Lest we forget…

Some never complain,
for the creative mind thrives
on the never-ending continuance of holes,
those places for dreamers to hunker down
like their fellow two and four-legged creatures
and gaze forth into life’s subterranean passages
where the unexpected awaits to be born.