Dear Alien,

In this our land of sad, untempered rage
We tip-toe like the Indian at night.
We sense the quiet danger of the age
So carry with us only what is Light.
We creep as creatures new to no restraint,
And hide before the Haunted-hunting Call.
(Which cuts the cloaked darkness like a Saint
Gone Made from fearful thinking of his fall.)
Fear's neither made of substance, nor of form,
Nor neither, too, contained in naught but air,
But someplace in-between. 'Tis eye and storm.
And so, like Man, convinced that It is there.

If tangled tangibilities could teach
Were they unbraided, sorted and laid-out,
What Truths (before unseen) would bless the eye?
What Knowledge gained? What Passion (drained of doubt)?
If God's pure Light and Nature's Denser Glow
were ready-made apparent, would we know?
This many-layered mask which hides our woe
Would drop away. Revealing Man below.