A mystery gripped me unawares,
One without form, shape or color
All I could make out is this dear:
Weaved out of million fine strands
Its essence is all; all of it a mystery.
No distinguishing mark, you’ll find
Its warm grip transcends limits
In such a state I was left, for which
A name none has ever invented
Even that’s not a need, of course
Being the one of it’s kind, a name
For the singular mystery won’t suit
It’s beyond the realm of identities
The mystery is just that,get it right.
Feb 2, 2019
Feb 2, 2019 at 6:09 PM UTC
A mystery gripped me unawares,
One without form, shape or color
All I could make out is this dear:
Weaved out of million fine strands
Its essence is all; all of it a mystery.
No distinguishing mark, you’ll find
Its warm grip transcends limits
In such a state I was left, for which
A name none has ever invented
Even that’s not a need, of course
Being the one of it’s kind, a name
For the singular mystery won’t suit
It’s beyond the realm of identities
The mystery is just that,get it right.
Request permission to use this poem