Burned By The Light
When I was young so young so long ago.
Of an age, teenage, and less, much much less.
I used to say, to myself; repeatedly, to myself.
‘I am a voice crying in the wilderness.
Who am I? Who am I? ’
When I was young so young so long ago.
Of an age, teenage, and less, much much less.
I used to ask this question.
Constantly this question.
‘Words are the tools of my trade.
Who am I? What am I? ’
It was ever an unanswered question.
No one except I, myself, could ever give an answer.
It was only I who saw the lamp.
‘I saw the lamp.’
I saw the lamp shining in the darkness.
I saw the lamp so softly so warmly glowing.
Like mesmerized moth I danced, circling
birthright ring of fire, as I ever tread my mesmeric path,
ever onward in ill conceived, yet impulsive soul quest;
to attain purity affixing hypnotic source flame lighting
celestial stairway, to glorious clear star laid heavens.
When I was young so young, my wise grandmother,
my Grandmother Alice Craddock, the wisest woman,
and the wisest old woman; I ever knew,
called me ‘old tot’ and ‘the little old man’.
Later starting school, my aunt, my aunt Glenis, said I
was one of those old ones, that had walked this world before.
Somehow somewhere, deep past mind song, I knew.
Both poet and prophet know clairvoyant knowledge;
at moments of soul sparkling radiant revelation.
I know why chosen ever stand alone.
I know why and I could tell you so!
But you do not really want to know!
Christ purchase price is too much to pay,
walk away walk away while you still may,
before sharp turned impetuous revealing light,
pierces mind’s tightly sealed scales night;
and raptured mind; is ever opened remodelled landscapes,
to mystic invading impaling visions;
from elemental environs skirting God-created
universal order, contained not within opiate dream state.
That haunts closeted dull day
and endless evocative night;
during continuing duration,
defining hermitage restless life.
[...] Read more
poem by Terence George Craddock
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