Is there anything more to say, really, than: “It is so?”

Yet words, dipped in fire, leap out of the void, then singe the earth.

Yet thoughts pitch and whir and whirl, putting us in a trance.

Yet feelings itch and inch forward, subtly or acutely denying this.

It is apparently impossible to meet and be with “It is so.”

It is so and there’s nowhere to go. It is so and there’s nothing to be done.  

Instead, we try and, in trying, allegedly wipe out the “It is so.”

Yet “It is so” remains, only veiled now. And so do we, only unknown.