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