Poetry

Thoughts of Nothing

In the dead of night

when my eyes are heavy

yet open,

I think–

not as Descartes

or as anxious philosophers,

nor the poets or painters

with brushstrokes

of black and black

upon the conscience’s easel.

I think of thinking

in a roundabout way,

a simple machine whirring

within every muscle

of the brain,

trying to compute itself

without ever computing it.

2 thoughts on “Thoughts of Nothing

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