Pulsating
Between the regions of the questions asked
And answers given, or not given, lie
The deeper thoughts. True seers we have tasked
Speak silently, unknown or known. We ply
Them like a medium who calls the dead.
A shadow has no substance in the cold
Yet lingers on the surface like a dread
Long frozen. Somewhere in between the old
And hidden new is throbbing truth. The shade,
Though passing over oceans, brings a gloom
That stains. Translucence lost is also made.
The shimmering is playful like your doom.
The dawn is brief, eternal and much more,
Immortal lancelets on the last first shore.
~ Phillip Whidden