Repetition

How many times do I need to reach out,
without reaching, into the universe
that waits, patiently, through my doubt
and some overwhelming sense, a perverse

need to communicate? In my weak hands
no infinite secrets are ever revealed,
and the world’s inscrutable veil still stands,
despite how fervently I have appealed.

So what is the point of this mad charade,
that leaves my soul drained and gasping for air,
smothered by the weight of some unseen muse,

and what difference have my words even made?
Have they reached anyone at all out there,
some other seekers willing to share clues?

04 MAR 2003

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