The nihilist dumps it all out and fails to act except for a great churning of feeling he doesn't know how to purposefully direct. The Christian still thinks there is value in the whatever, including the expression. The result of this pairing ('x') taken as one function ('f') is the output "poem". F(x). Here's a newer draft of something. Feedback will not be rejected outright. Hint, hints.
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Space cleared out in life for me.
Cutting out rotwood.
Humming head vibration.
Euphoric swelling.
Frisson of giddiness.
My world with sweet delicacy,
a clean taste,
rose petal blossoms
with every inhalation.
Spiraling galaxy of my soul stretching out
far, long.
Blood clean and rich.
Fellows of my life
and friends far away.
Quiet today, yesterday, tomorrow is.
Clean house with clean sheet bed,
empty mailbox,
and a phone not ringing.
Pens silent, small on the table,
a lovely look,
waiting for rapture
by spindle fingers
wrapping softly as lovers.
Never loneliness today.
Ink bottles into wells deepen,
joyfully expanding,
I dipping my drawing cup
into the black milky water --
drinking deeply.
Solitude,
a greatwine.
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