THE HOLLOW

There is a question 

I keep turning over 

and over again

in my mind.

It is like the oak

inside the acorn

that branches

in every direction

while asleep

and dreaming.

Oh, if I could just bury 

this query into a source 

and soil 

that wasn't me

I'd be free

of the worm of worry,

the What if I was wrong 

about everything?

that knocks incessantly

against the shell of

of all my thinking 

trying to get out.

If the worm wasn't there

maybe then I'd be 

happy and a hollow 

I could hear.