The Answer

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For truth is always strange; stranger than fiction.
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-- Lord Byron
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Would it be the streak across the sky
the non-responsiveness from a herd
or the pale blue desert on a windy night?
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Where must a traveler seek his adventure?
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The truth unspoken or dismembered
and fed to the packs that lie and wait.
The grains of sand coalescing with the air
brushed off the surface like remnants of water;
they must be set with direction nonetheless
for even the continuing light can seep through its vision.
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Would it be the curves across the plains
the patches of green from here to there
or the snakes that coil and rattle out their wishes?
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If in case the calm becomes the storm,
it would still slow to a cease in the end would it?
The remnants of water gradually becoming fog,
the visibility encloaked in grains and herds,
the truth streaking across the sky or buried under the plains.
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And it will awaken the silence once the storm is over,
defaced yet understanding how revelation does not
necessarily come with the answer.
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