Emptiness seems to be a half-way house,
neither a prison nor a life. For who
is it that checks in when you espouse
your nothingness? Can you still be you?
Emptiness seems to be a half-way house.
Only a person can celebrate release.
Purge you of yourself, and what is left
if no one lurks in these parentheses
to make amends for this immortal theft?
Emptiness seems to be a half-way house.