To take everything away.

 

To enter calm, where once bred distraction.

 

To shatter mirrors of illusions.

 

To enter nothing. 

 

Nothing: 

 

the slate is blank; 

 

the mortar in bricks of old walls wets, and the mind’s illusions wither, but to reappear vain.

 

One is left, then, with only a core:

 

a solemn, undeceiving, immovable, still, spiritually gestating center of focus:

 

immune to subterfuge, duplicity’s bane, destruction’s harbinger, to all that slithers with duality enflamed.

 

To reduce all to one. To focus, and be unmoved. To quiet all tremoring dreams.

 

And from such silence, a sweetest zone, of 

 

Black. 

 

An unstoppable inertia quietly creeps, a vengeance of movement above a ledge heaps,

 

and it’s time to Fly.

 

_________________

 

R.V. Smith: “I, Kestrel”, 03-07-25

 

© 2025 by Ryan Vincent Smith