So often we poke the envelope, recoiling, dazed and bemused
It moves but never gives, leaving us trite and confused
With no taste, no smell, no feel, it is not, yet desperately real
Intransient to all unveiling attempts it is ignored for the most
While permanently embedded, lurking at the back of our minds
Precipitating mystifing droplets from the shrouds of swirling clouds