Number 3,500: (White On White) Poem by DM W

No more can we speak
Of these profound mysteries.
Words are redundant.
We must pass over perennial
Conundrums in silence.
The more we investigate,
The less we seem to know.
Still we cling to soft syllables
Of Grace until
Mystical waves come forth;
Wherein all things are dissolved.
Then the swan dive slow
Into sapphire blue streams of dreams.
Pure vision lies
At the centre of inner worlds.
Layers of fragile notions are
Gradually peeled away
To reveal the original source:
That is being & knowing.
All colours bleed into one:
Minimal & stark white
Like a blank page.