And sometimes,

To myself,

Dare I admit.

Upon a shooting star

Have I, so often,


To disappear,

Into the delight of nothingness.

To be one with none,

yet, one with all.

To merge with the void,

Into the infinite abyss.

Oh, that enteral bliss.

To exist,

And not exist, the truest bliss.

In oblivion,

Did I find, the whole.

The soul of souls.

~ Natalia Awasty