Ooem

 

Then I write, when I write

I feel a lack of words like a lack of breath!

Panting, I ponder 

I call a Verse, 'Reverse'.

I call a Poem an Ooem - Lisping my way through names.

When I watch through the looking glass

Of this perspective window

I capture things so minute, miniscule, invisible

That spotting them morphs me into thin air

And I become a ghost of the Ooem - I mean the Poem.

"The Visible is a hoax" - wisdom from the Ghost I had become

Whispers in my ears.

"It is" I tend to agree. 

And bend to see the hoaxes through the perceptive.

I touch the non palpable

It feels like a simulation

Like an emotional masturbation.

There's a fulfillment that flows in my being

Beyond the blood and flesh

And I drown in that bliss.

I experience that which cannot be

Captured by the eye, the taste, the sniff, the ear, the epidermis

Oh that's because I become a Ghost.

I do not know if it is the damned one or Holier than thou.

I don't seem to care to sort it into this or that.

I emote, in the abstract

Vacuum flowing through the keypad.

Next time around I might call it a Syric instead of a Lyric.

Does it matter what I call it?

Or even how I shape it?

It is a void for Heaven's sake - or for the sake of Timbuktu.

It cannot confirm to the container

Or a spelling rule.

It is there but it isn't.

So what's in a name.

An Ooem it is, not a Poem. Spilling through the abyss.