A savage morning stillness
born of soundless nights.
No events bear witness 
to the mounting fright.
and the need to run
from solitude...
And nothing,
Nothing at all.

Still the incessant need exists 
to paint the canvas full,
An answer absolute.
the lines complete,
the pallet used,
No patch of fabric left uncovered.
An uninspired neatly finished picture 
and a feeble claim to
Nothing at all.

Instead of risk rejection, tears, and maybe joy,
embrace a passionless safely Nothing past,
as a refuge from a waiting but uncertain future. 
The question still;
To shape an unknown life 
and stake a claim to possibility,
or accept nothing,..
Nothing at all?

Life remains a thing of doubt
And challenge, unknown until it's end.
In life an opportunity and
only in death a thing complete.
A graveyard picket fence,
a point in time inclosed and done...
Regrets beneath the flowered field.
The choice itself is not a choice to choose;
The finish will be the finish 
and remain unknown until it's past.
To choose an end before it's time
is to choose no choice,
but nothing,
Nothing at all.

Failure lies in ambush
for attempts to dodge the unfamiliar
and hide beneath the past.
No matter the nobility of paint
or how intense the hue,
some fragment of uncovered canvas
seeks the unlived passion,
it's fibers exposed and waiting
for an undiscovered pigment;
A new and vibrant life.
Much, Much more than nothing
is the choice of life;
A life of choice.
pd copyright 1996

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