The Void Of It All Poem by Cristina Musat

The inner living sum roams
within the places that I pass
and the faces which I match
to the unknown
yet known memories of
our living,
questionable,
encompassing
machine.
How is it possible that
self and cycle
circle
into this unexperienced
yet recognizable pattern
of unknown life?
I don’t really get it
how the presence of my thoughts can pour
indistinguishably when written
yet exist idly within my skull?
when I think I am serene,
it seems that I am not.
For the vortex spins, it seems-
spins spins spins
when I unleash it;
and it goes on –
and I am
no agent,
I seem to be no cause,
I become
my beast,
my beat,
my what,
my spinning what:
the spinwave of my
numb.
My nothing becomes my
passively active
something.
So quit bugging me with your intentional desires.
My hollow flow is full.