It flashed out of the void,
then vanished.
You said it wasn't real.
You said that clinging to it
was sorrow.
You attended long lectures
about its non-existence,
weekend retreats to get rid of
what wasn't there, but
at night, alone, you admit
to having no idea
what it is, where it came from,
or what it means to the darkness
that fills you even now
with ineffable yearning
and dread.
All you really know is
that your life has become its
perpetual echo, an after image
in the eye that cannot see
out of dazzled blindness.
Ripe and desperate now,
why not confess how
much you need
the Beloved?
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