She pours herself out into the abyss,
Having long since realized
That its bottom is missing,
And that her pouring
Can never fill it.
She knows.
But still she pours—
Certainly because she can—
And because whatever
Will become of him
If she gives up?
And besides that,
What law is there
Against loving?
And it’s hers to choose,
Is it not?
And she pours until
She has emptied herself out
And must somehow find rest
To gather herself together
To pour again tomorrow—
Which she does,
Best she can.
And even so,
The bottomless believes
She must be holding back,
And that if her love were true
And her character sound,
He’d be full by now.
And so he stabs
At the very one-of-a-kind
Who pours her all
Into his emptiness.
And she’s not the only one
Who can’t fill his void,
For he counts it
Everyone’s duty
To fill him up,
And they fail altogether—
The bastards!—
When all the time,
It is he who has
Removed the bottom—
That responsibility for self
That is supposed to grow
From birth until it is strong and fast,
And can hold above it
An overflowing flood
Of the blessings of love and wisdom
From others.
His very existence was hung
On the thread of make-believe
The moment he shunned
Responsibility for self
And dared to believe
That he could be filled anyway
At the expense of others—
And that if he is not,
The fault is wholly theirs.
But what about her?
And what of her surprising self-sacrifice—
Because what normal human
Loves like this
And does not grow bitter
When it is squandered?
The labor of love,
So long endured
For the cause of love itself,
Has made her strong
Beyond her peers
Who give up more easily.
And there’s more.
Her pouring out,
Though offered in love,
And not to prove
The flaw in his philosophy,
Has certainly resulted
In the latter, anyway.
And here is the truth of the matter:
God is not cruel,
And would not create a man
Incapable of being filled.
But God,
Being ever full of surprises,
Did make man capable
Of undoing himself
And throwing the foundation out.
And such a man,
Having become a useless vessel
By his own doing,
Cannot collect life’s blessings
In his heart,
But may only enjoy them
For that brief moment
During which they are
Passing through
His bottomless self.
And he has doomed himself
To be a restless wanderer
On the Earth
Until he builds the bottom back—
If ever he does.
