The Ecstasy of Storms

There are no intervening years. That is only an illusion. The mind goes where it will, unrestrained. We bless and we scorn, But it all returns to us again, unnoticed. Music might reveal a certain nakedness-- A vision perhaps, But illusion will triumph And bind the mind. Exceptions are rare. We pivot left and right and turn 180, even 360, But we are trapped in this illusion And go nowhere. Happy or sad, does it matter? The end is the same: It is stream of con·scious·ness, Revealing a heavy heart. Or perhaps nothing more than mild raving. I am not at ease on the floor level of reality-- the mundane. I'd rather be listening to the Grateful Dead. Put your hand in mine. Let us walk beyond the thunder and the lightning, Where rain and sunshine are a joy, And we are the willing vessels. How long will you deny yourself the ecstasy of storms?