The Silent
Mystic

A Poet who's lost his pen,

A soul who's lost his way,

Like a guitar so out of touch,

So out of tune, you never think

To play

From the hilltops in the finest dress

Only to return in tattered robes,

A quest for glory that stole his soul

Same as he left, impure and whole.

Acquired possessions only posing

More questions as to why he strayed

From the root, performing experiments

On your illusions/delusions doesn’t make

Them any less untrue

The girl at the brothel

Doesn’t hold your solution,

The beggar with the empty cup will

Only leave you more confused

The witch’s magic,

And the magician’s trick

The proclaimed healer deludes themselves

The mystic with the truth needs no advertising

Tattered clothing in the breeze among questioning faces:

I do not require your understanding

Let other people define me,

I no longer wish to speak.