The New Mystic - Poem by Barry Middleton
The new mystic may speak of spring,
but is an unfamiliar way.
For spring is nothing more
than a coalescence of fevered stardust.
Without the bygone mystic,
spring is a warm and inarticulate breeze.
With no one to define it,
spring is just the sudden urge of a beast.
Spring is truly a sultry whisper
that only the mystic is roused to hear.
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