By Eolake Stobblehouse

What of it?
I asked of the sky
What of it?

Are we ever to wonder
and rage impotently
at the horizons of the unknowable

Teasing forth the wisdom of the hazy ages
only to spill our life's blood
on the churning aeons of the future

Or will we some day triumph
cutting a swath through the mist
with potent razors of the mind

To find the truths of the spirits eternal
in many-colored splendor
spread before our visage

However this may be
I know this and this only
We shall ever continue trying