Those poets talk of something I but dimly feel.
Yet, though clouded in darkness, I know there is something hiding.
In the heart of silence, something whispers to me.
Within every fibre and nerve, I sense its presence.
It is subtle yet powerful, unseen yet omnipresent.
Why does it hide? Why won't it show itself proudly?
Often I forget its there altogether, and despair consumes me.
Those poets write with eloquence and grace, yet I write crudely and with roughness.
But it does not matter, all words dissolve in its presence.
And we are all of the same source.