Nothing Will Come of Nothing
There is the nothing without
and the nothing within—
frost on the bones, and mist
on the skin. The gray clouds
have pushed the bird from its perch
by my window, and the sky bleeds
its solemn melody
into damp leaves underfoot.
There is the nothing without
and the nothing within—
frost on the bones, and mist
on the skin. The gray clouds
have pushed the bird from its perch
by my window, and the sky bleeds
its solemn melody
into damp leaves underfoot.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson