Words tumble out,
so rest assured that there is some light there to catch them.
But is this, that kind of light so cloaked in misty obscurity,
bringing a darkness all its own-
so indescribably dense,
so cumbersome
the soul can't shake,
the mind can't unwind,
for want of a less transformative scourging?
For in the painfully raw, dys-cryptic codex of common communication,
the only thing left to understand,
is what speaks beneath it all-
the incommunicable,
the bearer of that dark light which propels us ever onward
through the time-space miasma.
For this is what we truly live for-
the unutterables,
the mystery of that glorified redemptive kind of sweet inscience,
the things whose prescience exists to us only through and by their unfathomability,
absence of evidence becoming the evidence,
of unshakeable, mute-strickening presence.
