Philosophy

There is a place to which I often go,

Not by planning to, but by a flow

Away from all existence, to a cold

Lucidity, whose will is uncontrolled.

Here, the mills of God are never slow.

The landscape in its geological prime

Dissolves to show its quintessential slime.

A million stars are blotted out. I think

Of each historic passion as a blink

That happened to the sad eye of Time.

But residues of meaning still remain,

As darkest myths meander through the pain

Towards a final formula of light.

I, too, reject this clarity of sight.

What cannot be explained, do not explain.

The mundane language of the senses sings

Its own interpretations. Common things

Become, by virtue of their commonness,

An argument against their nakedness

That dies of cold to find the truth it brings.