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Mysticism
2006-12-01

In the tired haze of a windy day,
in a place where dark meets light,
something stirs within the a soul,
a bright green aura shows,

but only for the shortest of seconds,
only for the briefest of moments,
and the moment is gone,
the soul cannot fathom the truth,

and so he sits and ponders,
then the soul begins to move,
his feet lead him through the strong gusts,
to the cemetery, the old Indian mound.

He climbs the steps, never stopping,
and at the top he begins to pray.
The wind blows even stronger,
he is carried upon this breeze,

never moving, floating, mystic.
He looks forwards to the gate,
a fawn is bounding between the stones,
from one corner to another it goes.

After what seemed an usual time,
the deer comes and stands at the
bottom of the crooked stone stairs.
He walks down, and follows,

the dawn leads him between
the graves, and back out the gate.
And yet, he still flies, he still
ponders, he sees the green within,
he wonders at the colors without,
and when they might appear again.

James O. Stewart