I long for the scent of old roses clinging to stale lacy gowns that hang forgotten in the wardrobes of a bygone age,
Off-shouldered gowns once adorned by the red-haired ladies who danced and flirted with the poets and painters.
I yearn for the old mysticism and for the wonderment of seeing through the eyes a pre-Raphaelite artist;
Rossetti, Waterhouse, Hunt et al who always knew far more than they ever let on
And in their wisdom left us to discover just what that truly was.
I want the words of Blake and Byron to fill my soul with that which seemingly no longer exists.
Where is Turner, where is Martin and Blake the artist?
Where are they today?
They who fly with ease within the metaphysical spheres
And who stretch my soul so effortlessly with just one sentence, just one brushstroke.
With one glimpse into their eternity they showed me that horizons and boundaries simply do not exist.
Who now can penetrate my fragile human shell and give me wings to fly on the ceaseless currents of my imagination?
Where have all the mystics gone?
Where does the mystery of life abide?
Who now are the guardians of the written word?
Words I so long to pull apart,
To dissect their coded messages within.
I sigh; I cry for that which I do not find.
Which reverberate emptily upon my soul;
A swift and bloody sword to the heart
Ripping me painfully apart by words that shock,
Not of themselves, but of the horror of modern-day thinking.
Shards on a silent frozen pond;
Illusions of beauty shattered by one cutting word from a sharp-edged pen.
Why so angry?
Why so blind?
Close your eyes and see with me.
Be out of sync and out of time with me.
I took the wonderment gifted upon the sands for granted.
I savoured the intoxicating perfume from the rose.
I saw that world in the tiny grain;
Picked the pebble from the beach.
I saw the misty dawning sky and felt the cool evening chill with eyes closed tight.
In another incoming deluge of cold angry words with a pretence to shock,
Pages and pages of beauty remain unwritten;
Undiscovered as eternity relentlessly turns her pages
And the point of life simply slips on by.
Silently I watch as fate and destiny collide in yet another barrage of ugly words that hold no mystery and share no secrets.
Yet it was always written upon the shores of time
For the next chapter of the book of life to reveal itself;
Whether we listen or not.
Birthed in the shock of mundane human pain,
I hear the cries and the anguish of a human need
Of a human pain
Each cry to be heard above all the other already raised voices.
Yet the cries become a cacophony of unheard sound
Upon the eternal tides of a multi-verse that neither knows nor cares.
So I ask again
Where are the mystics and the metaphysical poets?
Where are they now?
Where are they?
When we need them the most?
Scribed February 2016
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