The Mystic

I am not the mystic.
I’m the joke,
the punchline punched out by ten thousand fates
vying for the last word,
making me cringe
at every ghost of a laugh.

I have never been a mystic.
The eternal solidity of all things
melts in my hands.
I slide past it all.
Reality is my speed
and all I know is what flashes past
like ghosts in some gray corridor.
I never come to rest.

I will not be a mystic.
My feet will stay firm against this treacherous ground.
Every split seam of sand grain against grain
is a chasm waiting to open
when my back is turned,
but my back never turns.
No ghost will ever spring out of hiding
to catch me.

I am not the mystic.
I stand in full sunlight.
No shadow of substance ever falls on me.
There is no barrier to my sight,
which peers on and on over this blank prairie
to total blue emptiness.
No ghost of a crescent moon ever threatens
to eclipse me.

I’m not a mystic.
I’m a joke
I tell
to myself.

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2 Comments on “The Mystic”

  1. Eric Alagan Says:

    One question – how does one get to be a ‘mystic’. I’ve come across bloggers who describe themselves as ‘a mystic’ – sounds a little pompous – but perhaps, I’m missing something.


    • I think it is just something you are, not something you become. A person is a mystic the same way a person is a musician. Come to think of it, I have also met people who described themselves as musicians, but it seemed to be in their imaginations more than their talent. So sometimes it is pompous. At least that is my take on it. I am not sure that I am myself what one would call a mystic; I have never been called a mystic by anyone else, anyway. This poem, of course, is more about the materialist mindset that despises mysticism.
      Thanks for coming by, Eric.


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