The Greater Absence

A silhouette did witness a descending puff of fog
and questioned then to which good end did this thing belong?
Its height suggests it's heaven-sent: it peaks above our reach -
but as it's struck upon the Earth it thins and there, depletes.
What God of good would craft a cloud and send it to its death?
What Death could come to claim a cloud devoid of consciousness?
What Mind of one, aware of none, could fret about its place?
What Balanced man, if any can, might mourn its scattered grace?

A silhouette stood motionless and peered into the sky,
impatient for a Thinking rain or the rolling of an eye.
The sheer and all-encompassed blue was stubborn and replete,
and the silhouette did tip his head; solemn in defeat.
Drawn from doldrums to its cry, above a bird then flew;
drawing patterns in its sky; a rainbow in its plume.
The silhouette, undaunted by this vacancy of truth,
left his peerless mourning, and, pursued this new pursuit.

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