(w)Holed Up

In the moments where we find
ourselves intertwined in all that
constitutes the fabrics of existence,
in all that fabricates our meager existence,
we find ourselves there in a place,
not known to many,
not visited by many,
shared between the few:
the Pillars of Creation.

What creates our creation?
Endlessly, fruitlessly, hopelessly
in the Deserts of Creation
few of us wander, in search,
in hopes of discovering our core,
that which creates our creation,
that which facilitates our existence.

I am of the few who have been there,
to the Plains of Creation, a destination
that is hard for me to reach in peace.
It is a place that exists in frayed edges,
in the Deep Nothing between thoughts.
Its entry hides behind our synthetic existence,
tantalizing us through the Word or ignorance thereof;
but in some way it calls to us all.

It is a journey that takes me into dense darkness,
down deep in the Caves of Creation.
I see the bodies of the forlorn, those who have
drifted here on painful rivers to die.
Here desolation is gripping, threatening.
This stretch is full of the Lifeless Gaze,
gandering at my meanderings.

But then I find myself in a place of wild grasses,
a place where I am so small, so universal,
infinitesimal juxtaposed against the walls
that are so high, extremely high
in these Valleys of Creation.

And as I walk along this trail, through terrain,
water cooling my weary feet in the Valleys,
rocks bleeding my feet as I traverse the Caves,
grass carpeting my feet as I stroll the Plains,
sands scorching my struggling feet in the Deserts;
I find that when I reach my Pillars of Creation,
that which creates my creation,
there is an anomaly within the Pillars:

They are all holed up and nothing is whole.