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Portrait of The Ancient Sage
April-October 30, 2002- Edited Sept. 22, 2017
Gordon Coombes

The Ancient Sage the last of the Seven

Leaning on his staff

as he walks along the stony path

swerving snaking up and around

the mountain where he lives finds solace

and solitude-

carrying a lamp to light his way

like Diogenes

as the long evening shadows

begin to darken his way-

incessantly caught in this moment

wondering whether this is the beginning

or the end of his long apprenticeship

the sky the wind the clouds passing

the mountains remaining as stoic sentinels-

all the Avatars all the incarnations

of a thousand Gods all the Saints

all the Angels all the Demons

remain forever silent-

after centuries of patience Isis reveals

her secret opening a slight crack

in the gleaming shimmering singing

celestial spheres of the spinning Universe-

a little pure light creeps in

through the cracks in the Dome

of the world-

remember what has been passed onto us

never force it

if the veil of the world is ripped

open too soon

these visions will overwhelm us

ripping us apart

leaving us broken damaged forever-

caution is our byword

each step measured carefully

pondered and weighed-

the Ancient Sage accepting visions from the other side

befriending lost and curious spirits

who wander through our houses

who wander about the streets

who sometimes take rides on buses

who linger on street corners

waiting for answers-

               

                     II

a healthy body

is but vanity

if the spirit is

left to fade and die-

all the money we horde

will not give us honour

nor peace of mind

nor happiness

while our soul

is left to languish-

the Spirit within waits to be revealed

ending years of deafening silence-

stealing one's self in this

time of uncertainty

all our adventures

all our past deeds

all the fellow travelers

we have met

all our struggles to survive

to push our limits

all our side-trips

down mysterious dark roads

into the realms of twilight

all are nothing to us now

becoming desperate at the last hour

to change our fate

to heal our invisible wounds

each day enfolded in despair

each day empty and sad

each hour is torture

each memory rips open old wounds -

 

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Tags: ancient, art, deafening, despair, dreams, hour, last, mountains, poetry, revealed, More…sage, silence, visions

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