Wither goest thou, little boy, little boy,
to play, to sup or to bed?
“I go to my Master’s house,” he said, he said,
“although I seem to have lost the way.”
How can it be there and then be gone?
How can you have it and then be missing it,
with no idea as to where,
between knowledge and volition,
it had stopped?
Wouldn’t you have felt it, that loss of the
THUMP-thump in your chest
and so know when it had slunk away?
Thank you for reading That emptiness. I sincerely hope you have enjoyed it and I humbly appreciate your visiting the Book of Pain. As always, I look forward to your comments.
The photograph is entitled They don’t make ‘em like they used to and was taken in the Poconos as we waited for a family to return to their house and and sell us some of their local honey. In the end I got the photograph, but no honey, and while I am not discontent, I’d have preferred both. For more photography, please visit the Book of Bokeh.
Photograph, poem and notes © 2014 by John Etheridge; all rights reserved. The poem and accompanying notes are licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License. This applies to all original written work found on this site, unless noted otherwise. The attribution claimed under the license is: © 2014 by John Etheridge, https://bookofpain.wordpress.com. The photograph is not licensed for use or reproduction in any way, unless so granted in writing by the copyright owner.