Voice from the Innards

To watch the mud as it bubbles up into my weary ears
and starts to gain a tongue.
To watch the fire as it slings the mud around,
promoting arrogance with a burning celestial sphere
as if to taunt the emissaries of thought -
is to know nihilism.

I don’t know what it is about you
that is shouting and is suddenly silent
when you see the fruit of your labours
in the wick of a candle;
I don’t know what it is about you
that refuses to embrace the cradle that rocked you,
even when you were cold and not at all
mocking me with your rocky tongue.