The Truth

He lives, without life
A thousand deaths, he dies.
Disguised as clouds, he rains,
Like fellow branches and leaves, he sways
Sometimes on the leaf itself, he stands;
To be touched by a soul, innocent,
Mirage as a dewdrop, beautiful but not eternal, he collapses
Somewhere else, he holds, he supports, he shelters,
The exploring roots of a tree above
The roots of his, himself, maybe?
Like other tides on the ocean, he gushes
On the beautiful shore, where he lays as the yellow sand
And, to make those tides live, he shines,
In the skies infinite, occupied with his presence,
Subtle, Calm, and sometimes rough,
He blows, he flows, he stays as the air,
Giving every creature, the ability to exist.
He is, what great men, seek so relentlessly,
So selflessly, so desperately
In caves underground, inside four walls:
Of mosques and churches and temple halls,
Little do they know that their quest is flawed,
For he's not someone to be searched, but something to be felt.
And they never get him, or her, or whatever it is,
For they are a part of his, and he is of them.