The Mystic

We often watch the clouds gambolling in the sky and our imagination weaves the clouds into shapes. Some clouds appear like little kittens playfully snarling the yarn or others like a witch on a broomstick or like an angel with a magic wand or like a pigtailed girl playing hopscotch. These imaginary beings people my poem and bring me out of my reverie.

Under the azure canopy I sit, bewildered and torn,

Staring with sightless eyes at clouds that drift from eve to morn.

The tragedy of a life spent chasing dreams of fluff,

Was writ large on every spike and trough.

I gazed into the depths of the sky,

Seeking to discover the reason why

Life painfully drags and trails, by and by.

Suddenly a whimsy brushed playfully past,

Chasing the gloom away by its elfish cast.

It made me laugh, it made me smile

As I saw clouds frolic with childlike guile.

Out with the whimsy, my inner voice rapped aloud,

I paused, I tarried then pondered about.

A fluffy candy or

A rotund dandy

Kittens that gambol or

Pups that ramble

A magical unicorn here

Or a pretty pony there.

A pigtailed girl playing hopscotch with dainty feet

An exotic bird dancing to a tweet.

The silhouette of a mystic with a lotus stance,

Gazing at a world of strife

With wisdom in his glance

The Mystic with the curly hair and eyes so pure,

Beckons with an open hand so sure

The white swathe with Buddha-like sinews,

My faith in mankind renews.

Death and pain, they matter not,

Loss and gain appear battles ill fought

Under the azure canopy I sit, unruffled and serene at last,

At peace and in harmony with the world and my past.

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