I wrote a poem last night. If you take any pleasure in appreciating fine literature, I suggest you don’t read it. It’s very average.

I stand before a great abyss,
A garden to my back.
Crowds cheer, friends urge me on.
Jeers and taunts rise mingled, a fog of nonsense.

The abyss has no bottom,
Nor walls, nor sky.
In it there is no light,
No life, no love, nothing.
It is not suicide, but neither is it different.

It calls me forth,
Fog hides the garden.
This moment contains all moments.
Will I let go, allow myself to fall?

What holds me back, I cannot say.
Dew, perhaps, the joy of play.
I can’t deny the truth I know,
the garden, plain as day.

What wind is this? For now I see
the garden clear and true!
That the abyss is not garden
requires that garden be.

The crowds are faint, a vapour’s breath.
Their reasons still more pale,
Now drowned by the booming voice
which holds me in my place:

“But for me, there you go.
But for me, there is all there is.
But, as for me, I Am,
and I Am all you need.”

Plunging deeper, the garden grows
Taller, thicker, brighter, realer.
I press on, or am carried.
There is no difference.

The abyss behind is fading fast.
Nothingness is very small
compared to something real.
There are some who say
there is life in the abyss.
No, Life is far too big for that
and greater still.