Some Plan...

Dreams, slumbering thoughts, imagination,
sometimes I can't discern them.
More pertinent,
it doesn't seem to matter,
since all seem clear in their content.
For reason is not itself temporal,
so it matters little where or when they occur,
so long as they are clear in structure.

My Angels and Dust and Rings,
some warped mix
of divinity, mortality, and oaths--
that which I can only talk around,
but not directly.

Imagine leaf clusters, sunbeams, and strange wildlife.
If only I put pieces together right,
some secret unlocked.
The trees might bend to reveal worn trail,
outlined in wild flowers,
patches of light leading me onward.
What is it I'm supposed to do here?
View it properly?
I believe I see the full beauty,
and yet something is lacking.

Imagine standing in front of a workshop table:
bolts, nuts, nails, and a claw hammer lay,
cold and motionless.
Buckles, frames, and measuring tapes,
some mix of scrap and real parts,
and I'm to play engineer.
What gadget is it you want me to make?
Where is the blueprint?
I intuit it's within me,
but see it not.

Imagine the home of a classicist.
Renaissance art and wine glasses,
fading sheet music covers the ground,
edges burned or worn off--
leading to the long dead hearth.
I am discussing with the owner.
The dialogue is challenging,
rewarding, yet it doesn't end,
even after conclusion.
What is it I'm supposed to ask?
His forward stature tells of his waiting
for a question I don't know about.

It doesn't seem to be enough to want,
whatever this secret is.
Not enough to merely desire you.
I have to ask the right question,
although I want to,
I can't.
I don't know what it is.