Casey Gilfillan

I stumble through the mist, shrouded in the
lush abundance, searching in this fog for
a purpose that does not belong to me. 
I fumble with hands that are unaccompanied
by the assistance of my eyes, as I strive

for this purpose that I know I cannot know
but believe I will somehow feel, in some
metaphysical way. I will grapple with it,
not with these wearied hands that yearn through the 
obscurity to not only touch upon but seize it with possession – no.

I am to meet it through some internal
acknowledgement, my soul to my heart to
my brain communicating a physiological
verification of truth. The path will become apparent,
the elusive, environmental mask might yet be outwitted.

And so I feel and do not see but hope and ache my way through.
All the while I wander and my hands are empty, my soul unconfirmed.