Existential Blues

Sometimes I'm convinced that life is a cracked cistern 
in which we pour passions and an endless tale of toils 
as a motion that vanishes into a profound nothingness. 

Like a tangled pocket with a hole, it is the abyss  
of our most sculpted shadows, the abode 
of the emptiness that haunts the soul. 

A loveless life is nothing but a basket of water 
in a Sahara of thirst, a desolate sea of wilderness 
from which might flow a bubbling spring 

if love satiates as an infinite rush of water, 
a serein which, from cloudless skies,
refreshes beyond the enclosures of time.

What then is this life, God, if not the river that flows 
from naught within your heart, bringing poems 
and life that quilt beauty from a meaningless void?

Sometimes I'm convinced of this; other times, not so.