When I was young, the wind in the trees
Brought intimations of the Great Spirit.
Later, I suffered from a grey disease
And my soul was like an apple, rotten to the core.
I used to try to freeze Eternity
Into one single Moment,
Stand on a hill-top and try to transfix
The Beauty of Nature like a
Final Butterfly captured Forever.
It was a hopeless task.
Later, I wrote down my Vision
In poems of no merit
And dreamed of Immortality.
Now I cannot say You were always there,
Knocking at my door,
Beckoning me to a life of Love through Action.
It isn't true.
I was fumbling about in the darkness,
Trying to be sure,
To find my Vocation in the dullest chore,
Like saints do.
I always wanted to be special,
The centre, not on the periphery,
To be loved.......
But tell me, Great Spirit, is there no cure?
John Thorkild Ellison
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-failed-mystic/
