Not knowing

Not knowing is equivalent  to  fog and not  night
That still has a few vague outlines visible as white
Smudges on plain black surfaces, blobs of liquid
Lightly glistening in a night's spooky existence.

Not knowing  is irony that is  a recipe for enjoyment
Being a constant remainder of  effeteness, a struggle
To grapple with distances to a mute destiny at end.

The fog collects behind your  ears, always wet there,
Under a monkey cap deliciously arching over  them
And slowly spreads into your interior of tympanum
Till word is heard in series of undertones like drums
That lose their essential message in ripples of sound
A constant drone , a continuing whisper till no more.

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