In grief we fight from moment to moment
never knowing
yesterday's truths or tomorrow's lies.
With blinders on we see only cataracts of time,
falling, falling,
dropping off to God knows where.
I seek to know,
help me in my unknowing.
And finally,
when shall I know that the intellect knows so little?
When from the depths of some abyss
pristine drops of water come,
and touching me
they find and baptize a soul
wanting so much to be touched by the truth,
to be free.
How could I know how wonderful it feels
to be self if it was not for you?
And what do I say
when the gentle breeze calls for a response?
Madness is just madness.
Glory lies to justify the madness.
And yet,
in their souls lies a hidden time
when truth is One.

From, Pieces of the Journey: A Collection, Don Davison

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