Old poem alert: don't read if you don't like angst

Found this lurking in a little-used file on the system... It's a poem I wrote 6 years ago that is mighty pretentious, but has a nice rhythm to it I especially like the second line of the second stanza.

Winter Morning

I sought God on a grey day
With a short horizon and cloud hung low
Mist obscured where I should go
And when I talked, I talked in tongues
But now I’m mute
And the point is moot
The tree of life yields bitter fruit

I sought God on a dark night
In the vaults of Heaven, in a crypt of stars
And moonshine shone on prison bars
And when I sang, I sang sad songs
But now I’m mute
And the point is moot
The tree of life yields bitter fruit

I sought God on a cold morn
In a ghost-white forest, under haunted trees
A chill wind stirred a grave of leaves
And when I wept, I wept alone
But now I’m mute
And the point is moot
The tree of life yields bitter fruit

I sought God on a drawn eve
When my breath was warm and my skin was cold
The world was young, yet I felt old
And when I slept, I slept like stone
Forever mute
But the point is moot
The tree of life yields bitter fruit