Clouds Catch Little Light at Midnight

Clouds catch little light at midnight, but still,
they can be seen drifting
over dark fields; precious and new like an infant's wispy
hairs
-behemoths of these blackened
skies; holding life, holding chaos.

The catch of snow over the landscape bares nothing
but silence, maddening the ghost of flora.

What is the use of knowing when this is all
the world has offered forth?

In these lands, where abandoned machines scatter
infinite, rusting back to the gut earth
as relics of our fathers' labors, the only knowledge
is sorrow.
The only sorrow is knowledge.