Caveat: Poem #814

The reasons we do things
remain inscrutable,
our thoughts spin, running rings,
with motivations dull
and grayish clouds that drift
within their bony domes;
while outside visions lift
away the seething foams
of seas that beat and thrash
against perceptions, so
at last a tiny cache
of meaning falls like snow
which leaves a pallid face
which tilts up into space.

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