in the onrushing clouds

In the onrushing clouds
that wrap across the expanse
November meets the night, 
doubt and sweeping rains
break through sentiment
with the sharp edge
of old days, now gleaming.
Some genetic memory
carries me now, privately,
and it carries all of us
as we are forced out 
of the whirling earth
with such unceremonious
creation and decomposition.
So what to do? Wade
into this new night?
The answers aren’t here
and don’t have to be rational,
nothing is clear-cut,
no obvious rooms
vacant to house their
living expressions,
no wired instinct to halt
their passage to lands
yet undiscovered