The Weightlessness that Breaks my Heart

I have in my hand,

A truth that will encumber our lives,

It will engulf us into a realm of blackness,

Depth that will never heal.

I do not know the weight of this secret,

Or if I may have saved me in the past,

But I do know that I have never seen it,

It is so well kept-that I doubt if it is really my own.

I open my hand,

The air becomes a thin blade, hanging in our essence,

This truth is much mre sharp,

It gashes as the fabric of our being,

And dwells inside the shredded tissues of our skin,

In my hand, I have nothing.

I have had nothing all along,

Surely I was not planned to be this way,

And I certainly had the audacity and willpower to change it,

But after countless years, I see nothing,

A nothingness that could have been something other than hope and regret,

A something without tangible weight,

But sentimental value,

Something that could be my center,

Yet my life is as hollow as this secrect that is mine forever,

This nothingness is my crypt,

My wooden box,

And not the casket that I so desire.