For the fog of the veil opens up
We bow our heads to sacred lands
Cloistered upon seas of trees
We look up at the sky for those holy hands
Reaching up, fingertips on the edge of divinity
Hoping for an intervention, an unrequited proclivity
These lands are too sacred for our mortal being
Glorious, this fog devours time of the unseeing
For the fog of the veil opens up
We clasp our hands to its grandeur
Lost in a wicked maze of thorned thistles
We walk in this lawless land barefoot, it whittles
Denseness of the fog, whiteness of the veil
A clueless act just waiting to prevail
Who can come and hand us this help?
Can the unseeing see the undealt?
It is the veil that speaks, and we conform to this
We fear of our lives, in nature we cease
There are too many, and we could not keep up
A mist carries my doubts away, it must be stopped
Alas, the harrowing majesty
The fog never lifts up, it devours in its enormity
The sacred land ends up a frayed seam
A vagrant sand, a faraway dream
//k.u.
YOU ARE READING
The Quarantine Book
Poetry"--the stillness of isolation, the blazing aloneness, the rich moments with loved ones, and the sole solitude of the person. The rumination of a bored writer, a reflection of the months, a reaction to the silence and loudness of life. It's a methodi...
