We Can Only Say

"Where art Thou?", he could only say.

You see a man knows there is Something greater than himself. Something more mysterious than the mundane of work and that which we call love.

"Where art Thou?"

His soul would only cry. For the sky is dark and the clouds are all but a sign of some bit of covering. The covering that only some make it out alive. Something about the heigth of their beauty and only yet they cannot be grasped. They offer some hint of hope, and yet once you get up as high, they are but a misty incomplete substance.

There is nothing of which you grasp that cannot be caught. That is what they say.

But still, at the end of our lives, we are but empty. Empty and dying. As our money sits by our bedside and our estate is passed, nor are we afraid as we were when we worried to save. Save save, and then one day you go away. The bed sheets are then but washed as they lay you down or fire you up. Your children are safe.

"Where art Thou?"

In the midst of all this? When one wants to pray. When one wants to and can only crave.

We can only but say. "This is not our home".

This is not our home...