Pure poetry, of course
we need pure poetry.
To capture the Mystery
prose does not suffice.
We understand too
little,
comprehend too little
to make a pretense of
describing or explaining in prose.
Let words and music
twist and contort in irrational patterns
Let rhythms and
syncopation,
rhyme and discord,
strain to convey a
little of the majesty and wonder.
The Mystery teases,
dancing on the periphery of our vision,
each revealing glimpse
accompanied by the admonition to whisper nothing of it.
The Mystery will not
submit to anything as clumsy as analysis
or anything as crude as
human logic.
The Mystery is a breeze
brushing the skin,
undoubtedly there,
uncompromisingly
invisible.
We create our
religions,
we concoct our dogmas,
to explain the
sensations that ripple across the surface of our soul,
but the breeze of
Spirit will not be captured nor tamed
to suit our human
fancies.
Sometimes gentle,
usually unnoticed,
on occasion fierce and
undeniable,
the wind of the Mystery
brushes the skin of our soul,
warming, cooling,
remaining steadfastly invisible,
bringing the weather of
Creation that shapes our destiny.
Feel free to pass it on.
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