Leave it Unnamed
It never is created by mere speech
And silence cannot penetrate it. Deep
It always is. It has a wounded reach
Too often with a name, sometimes, in sleep
But in the waking hours the names that come
To it are shallow, like a shallow pond.
No depth is in them. They are more like scum.
When poets try cage bars, it leaps beyond.
The priests and prophets think that they can call
It from their gods. Two mirrors facing one
Another tell the truth, but mostly scrawl
And mumble are deduced. Wise shamans shun
Attempts to explicate except in mists.
Wise men in love might shove up two hard fists.