Lost In the Mists, Parts I-Iv

Lost In the Mists Parts I - IV I. I ask these things, not understanding Accepting The ephemera of their answers: How is it we come to be together In this place and time? Again: Whence came this world, with its teeming billions, Hung together with threads of love, hope and fear How we exist as a multitude of strangers, Few reaching for any deeper understanding Beyond the casual nod, the indifferent glance. For this there is no answer, For when I look for one through the doorway of my mind, I see only fields of grey. Grey, the rainsky color, Nor black nor white A muddled marriage of light and dark; The blurring color, The color of doubt. Many things are grey Grey is many things: Grey is the time between sleeping and waking, Grey the long hours of lonely lives Morality is a grey word, For grey is always uncertain, Down all the long channels of cherished belief Run currents of grey, The color of doubt. II. Today's good action is tomorrow's crime What we save today will be cast away later And tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, Down through the unknowable chain of future days The right things to do will shift with the flux and flow And the only constant will be change. Those who question move through life With unsteady grace, Their inward visions ponderous, Deeds slow of execution. Caution is their foundation; At rest upon a sea of sand The rainsky color the shade of their thoughts. III. Temerity is a part of the human way We dominate what we can, And deride the rest And the heart speaks in terms the tongue cannot translate, Suggesting that our worst is yet a part of our best, That ashen taste behind the use of our small powers Tempers the pride of our triumphant hours. Beneath the greening of the summerwarmed earth Corruption proceeds in its slow work, Feeding the living on the fruits of its breakage Of the form and substance of the dead. The cold rain slanting down from leaden clouds Softens and enlivens roots deep in the loam, The dessicated pulp of yesterday's life - Many voices softly speak Through the pattering tears of the sky, Many voices, not understood by the mind, Not grasped by understanding, But heard and interpreted in the dark chambers At the center of the soul, Where the meanings of things old as this world Quietly abide Resting in the silent center The fertile graveyard of our primal thoughts. The rain speaks though the wall of grey Addressing our pride Mixing truths forgotten with truths shut out. The rain speaks, saying, among other things, What are these monuments of men, the work of a day? The mountains the Earth brought forth, In fevered fury, long, long ages ago Have outlasted your whole race. They are Her monuments, and yet for all their strength and glory I, the humble rain, I have washed away whole chains of them; for I persist, returning and returning, An Age but a moment to me. We can watch our glories dissolve; Stone upon stone, great edifices rise to crumble and fall again, Forgotten, fractured, always being replaced By other stones upon stones Which will decay in their turn. Impermanence is the standard of human affairs, The common complaint in which everyone shares. Consider with me the few things which do last - Thoughts and emotions need not fade with the past. IV. Grey may be somber, but need not be hopeless In grey is our suspension Between unclear alternatives In grey we form our judgements And divide what is from what may be. Listen,listen,listen To the tired sighing of the winds. They announce the advance of the evening's shadows And weigh and form their opinions (in what else?) grey. At any time,on two sides of this globe, Daylight and Nightdark are meeting In perpetual sunset/sunrise 'round the rim of the world They blend in indistinction, Merging with the starstrewn space, The Nothing which contains it all. In our tiny time we have dared to define The Nature and Simplicity of God And tried to dissect the clockwork It formed and set in motion Forcing Order out of Chaos Meaning from Madness These things we have described and defined And fought about, unto the death. Advancing and rejecting theories Running in wide circles back to where we began. And through every cycle the result is the same;, We drown our understanding in oceans of grey. It seems that in the end God is just God, A being Beyond and Above Past the weak reach of new minds such as ours. And the Ghost in the Machine whispers, Telling tales not so hard to comprehend, But we refuse to listen. We are the watchers in the dim shadowland, We the listeners for the voice of Truth. We search for we know not what, As we pick a few jewels along the way.