The pulsating mist A sentient thick veil of black marrow The breathing nothing that lurks in Plain sight The walls that meet in no Ceiling That grow from no Ground That rise from no Land The grey nothing The neat emptiness Of no being Of no extremes The fabric of light The nexus that forms The bonds that hold The matter that stains The excuse for tearing it all The instrument that tears The gears that grind The pulsating mist The blackened eyes that Patiently watch The breathing nothing That lurks in plain sight The pulsating presence, The blind perception The reason for tearing it all