Mist-Bound

Where do we go in sessions of rapt thought? Let us follow the stations of a poet's pilgrimage The mind goes down a street lined with facades Puts reflexes in charge of driving their own car The locus of sentience must shift to mark time It slides like a spotlight over sedimentary rocks Sets itself apart from all its formulations Ties them with ribbon, sends them downstream Sees memories fade to abstract reminders Finds them later wrapped in colorful dreams Gets lost at times from boundaries it lived by Churning up a cloud of hyphenated roads Eking out a journey through their dust One special moment envisions a gift to the tribe Its grand conception engorged with my passion But rare is the seedling that gets enough sap Time drains its vitality, and even regrets over that Turn to mists that locate me in no particular place How far into non-local space could eyes ever peer? All formations are stretched thin in an abyss Hence each knows its season of wintry death A song holds out a thread, calls to a sacred goal Or a song may only tantalize on the way to limbo If we cannot set ourselves squarely on a path Then we must ask, when will the mists lift? If no songs of celebration help us on our way Then we must ask, when will the mists lift?