Our Craft

In angst, of sorrow, dark brooding, lost and lonely,
More and more, and more and more, coming, closing,
All consuming and finding knot, and not, and naught,
And question marks in boundless measure.

Wait upon them, cradle them, hold them close.
Do not let them flee ere ready and attend.
Truths do not so easily form and flow, and
Lies do fall trippingly; the Bard knows.

In time, the sublime power they hold will set them free,
Through any and each and all of us in turn,
And then… Oh! What wonders shall be seen!
It has always been thus, for so must it be.