Mystery (a poem)

There is mystery in me.

I can’t see it.

I can’t touch it.

I can’t hear it.

It’s beyond intellect or feelings,

Or any of the five senses.

I wonder how

It’s painted

In the picture

Of my life...

Dark clouds,

Sun streaming

In, layers of

Fog, rainbows,

Shadows,

Silhouettes

Unnamed.

A following,

But it so often

Eludes me except

In my dreams.

In reality,

I lay awake,

In my own

Solitary

State.