Empty

This emptiness has a

hopeless poet, at loss.

While words spring in bounty,

What just are words without a string?

Fragile beads pour from empty cups,

hungry to fall on the

tongue of the one wanting to read.

From empty cups, one can drink.

In emptiness, ironically,

no space there is

for letters even.

Let alone words meaningless.

For the first time,

A full bowl of glass beads there is.

But the thread itself,

has fled into emptiness.