Nothing

a poem by Rao K R

If all the angles’re
explored and exhausted
to their finicky finality,
it’s nothing that comes
as the only reality
one has,
like a hare from
the bushes,
like a perception
from the blue to be
synchronised again
into the architecture
of a lucent thought.
A poem is for ever,
a beginning and
an end too.
And the rest is silence,
fit for gods.