White Dot

Nothing is like anything else,

everything's the same,

our progress punctuated

by a series of coincidence

to form a logical chain.

Nothing is like everything else,

like anything you name.

Pomposity unpunctured,

we're approaching a velocity

of escape from our mortal frames.

So nothing is like anything else,

so everything's designed.

We're utterly dependent on

our self-deluding sense of what we've done

and what we'll do if we have time

with nothing else in mind.

A time to think is now at a premium.

You show bare inkling of a vital sign.

Though in the pink

in every outward appearance

inside it's white dot time.

Oh, nothing comes to mind.

So nothing comes to mind.

Does nothing come to mind

when you're finally mindful of nothing?