The Mystic

The blood of channels of ages

of ancient mad philosophers

waking at dawn,

resting bare feet

upon the face of Mother Earth,

staring in wondrous awe

to a skyline that speaks

of truth and wisdom.

Whispers of the velvet night,

and the newborn dawn,

sing in hushed angelic choirs,

comforting the spirit,

guiding the traveler,

like lanterns held high

in the searing desert sand,

telling the mind, body and soul,

to keep

moving

onward.

The well is not far,

dear friend,

and it is deep. 

The moss covered stones

have secrets

for you.

Step lightly,

in reverence,

drink of only

what is required

to sustain your spirit,

for there are others

following your tracks,

even if hidden

by the wailing wind.

They follow your scent,

like fireside smoke

spiraling,

above this dying world.

Rejoice,

for you are blessed

with the knowing

that existence is eternal,

and that this life 

is but

a dream. 

words & photography © Susan Marie