The Angel Call Poem by DM W

The Angel call is beyond our grasp,
Now we are drawn to a secular sty.
We think we've gathered in golden harvests,
But we dwell in dry realms of mould and stone.
We believe we live in an Age of Progress,
Yet we are spiritually inert.
We are like children lost in a dark wood;
Afraid of spectres & their own shadows.
Hence the refuge of the psychiatrist's couch,
And the contemporary cult of counselling.
For we are trapped in a labyrinthine world
Without richness of rarefied reference points
Without the pellucid Light to guide us.
This era's colours and sounds are deafening.
Have we forgotten the still, pure pools
Of silence that flow through verdant creation?
Have we forgotten that ancient wisdom
Transcends fleeting, digital information
Have we forgotten that Love soars above
The abyss of social atomisation?
Do we no longer seek the fabled Keys
To the vast, unbroken, azure kingdom?
The Angel call is beyond our grasp,
Now we are drawn to a secular sty.