Frater OZ
Middle Pillar
Love is a thing which few men understand.
When two, become one, become none in your hand.
But none, still extended, is a one without thought,
When that one becomes nothing, then is it naught.
But naught is a word, and as such has a form,
whereas 0 is a number, invoking a storm.
This storm is a six, twixt a nine and a one,
and its voice whispers softly, "your work's just begun."
But this work in itself, is a cave you must enter.
A cave filled with black, as you climb up the center.
This darkness is 0, twixt a one and a six,
true 0 un-extended, in space it is fixed.
And as hard as you try to go back down the ladder,
your destiny's fixed, your strength becomes shattered.
You cannot retreat, from the cave filled with black,
your fears you must face, for there's no turning back.
You are thrust into blackness, which in nowhere dwells,
stripped of your everythings, swimming in shells.
You must find the nothing, to stay on the track,
or else take your place, with the brothers of black.
This nothing is two, become one, become none.
It is 0 un-extended, upended, undone.
Self becomes self-less, no-thing by your will.
Your ego is shattered, and all remains still.
As a babe in an egg, you are now in the womb.
The womb which you feared was a terrible tomb.
Defenseless, expecting a swords strike from above,
instead, on your lips is the first kiss of love.
Birthed from the blackness, on light your eyes fall,
the 0 which you sought was a one after all.
You emerged from the womb on the wings of no-thing.