Feel
And then I felt that most undescribable feeling,
of being almost able to touch god,
to touch a vastness so precicely bundled up into an idea,
that all of history is a point,
that encircles all things and yet means nothing,
that darkness so bright it blinds,
the sound so loud it is silent,
and all music is sculpted out of its persistence,
and colour so vivid,
it makes all else seem dull,
where the morninglight is sleepy,
and the trees reach deep into the soul,
their roots grappling with the sordid,
emptiness,
of all those moments after that most undescribable feeling,
making all else seem pitiful,
in its emtiness, so entire and consuming,
that it itself does not seem enough,
and the ideals I raised my mind to have trodden down to the mud,
and yet when I sleep at night,
or walk through a misty wood,
and see the moss on some bark,
or the bird in the sky swoop to land,
the absence of that perfection,
seems all a perfection itself.