The Failed Mystic Poem by John Thorkild Ellison

When I was young, the wind in the trees
Brought intimations of the Great Spirit.
Later, I suffered from a grey disease
And my soul was like an apple, rotten to the core.

I used to try to freeze Eternity
Into one single Moment,
Stand on a hill-top and try to transfix
The Beauty of Nature like a
Final Butterfly captured Forever.
It was a hopeless task.

Later, I wrote down my Vision
In poems of no merit
And dreamed of Immortality.

Now I cannot say You were always there,
Knocking at my door,
Beckoning me to a life of Love through Action.

It isn't true.

I was fumbling about in the darkness,
Trying to be sure,
To find my Vocation in the dullest chore,
Like saints do.

I always wanted to be special,
The centre, not on the periphery,
To be loved.......

But tell me, Great Spirit, is there no cure?