The Questioning
I sang a song to morning’s moon;
It echoed back unheard.
I sang a song to midnight waves,
But their rhythms were interred.
I cast my voice to the dreaming trees
That grow from the pain floored wood.
Their silence was a choking breath
On the embers of smouldering mood.
I called aloud to a passing cloud,
That drifted on unsharing.
Rage surfed on rips of futile thought,
That on my mind were wearing.
I drifted ‘neath the wheeling stars
And despaired at elusive insight.
The Questioning still burned within,
And I slept in the arms of the night .
I dreamt a verse I felt in heart,
Of a search for The Tapestry.
And it kissed me back a whisper
That silenced the mystery.
That the answers did not matter;
That questions alone �?were inside.
That the questions were the answers,
Unlocking in my mind.
Copyright, Gordon A. MacIntyre, October 2008
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