Missing

This poem is about nothing for certain although it's been written like it could be about something. But it's an optical illusion; a too effusive flux of ether, of atoms smashing against a void, space re-orienting toward forever. Out of nothing, nothing's coming, and out of everything, nothing's left; all births are sterile, empty spoofs when the abacus of life has no more beads, and the doors of freedom, have been cleaved. Only Adam's rib remains, everything else was wasted space; wasted breath or sulfured flames- (Heaven's looking for a few good angels now, just to take our place)