Immaculate Nothing (Glancing towards defeat)

IMMACULATE NOTHING
(Glancing towards defeat)

I am
lying still, alone
waiting for darkness;
filling the emptiness
by dreaming and by longing.
Dreaming that I'm listening
to the sound of your breathing.
Longing
to find comfort in closeness,
in the reassurance of your touch,
the sound of your sigh,
the sweet taste of your breath;
safety in
the warmth of your presence.
Longing
to lie at your breast and dream,
mesmerised, dizzy, intoxicated,
of your lips;
to define myself entirely
in terms of you,
to fade into you, to find
immaculate consolation
in you.

But this is illusion,
only more desirable
for being so unattainable.
Alcohol and chemicals
distort reality;
thoughts become echoes,
fleeting and unconnected.
Images swirl and form,
dreamy and enticing,
then wash away to nothing.
Why even try to paint pictures?
Creativity is tiresome;
the canvas stays blank,
uncluttered, pure,
immaculate.

I am
lying perfectly still,
listening to the hypnotic sound
of my own breathing.
Finding comfort in
the enveloping darkness;
safety in
this perfect stillness;
a kind of reassurance
in the numbing emptiness
of this immaculate
desolation.

My sense of self
wavers and blurs.
For a moment,
the prospect of oblivion,
of fading irredeemably
to nothing: blank,
uncluttered, pure,
immaculate:
feels achingly seductive,
embracing, even
alluring.
Just in this moment I glance,
mesmerised, dizzy, intoxicated,
horrified,
towards defeat.

[Paul Best -
July 2001]