I’ve misplaced the chasm of my being,
the interlude alludes me,
the wailing magnetism,
of wakefulness chasing half sleep.
That’s where everything happens,
where the interstitial boils.
In time, you learn how to summons it.
We all have it,
The blank page of our soul,
Waits silently for your brush,
For the covers to be pulled off,
And a ray of light,
To bounce off it.
That fissure is the way in and the way out,
The inter of all things,
Art and world,
Self and God.