A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.


Our invisible self,
Both elephant,
And room,
The sorcerer,
And his broom.


Through parting clouds,
The moon and stars,
Shift their gaze,
Warm eyes
And nodding smiles,
Beam down,
As another man's laughter,
Peals triumphant,
To the ends of time,
His brittle mask of reason,
Blowing as dust
Upon the ground.


That knowledge,
Which would usurp mystery
From its rightful throne,
Is an impostor.