Modern Mystic Poem by DM W

Hidden away in a house on the hill,
The modern mystic ponders the world's woes.
He studies all the infantile games
That the people perennially play.
O from the cradle to the grave they go
In their merry, care free way and recline
In the sty of spurious contentment.
He avoids ape men & their painted zombies
And shuns the company of useful idiots.
He sneers at the all too human systems
That only function to frustrate and curtail
The noble artist's pure visions & dreaming.
He is at one with nature's rhythms and cycles.
He has no need for disposable items.
He declines the rampant, febrile offerings
Of social media. He firmly believes
That it's function is to distract not enlighten.
For him it is merely idle chatter;
Not teeming, primal communion.
That seeks the fruits of mystical union.
His gaze pierces the skull beneath the skin.
In deepest meditation he's seen it all.
He knows that fragile empires rise and fall.
And that history's blood stained lessons have not been learned.
He has no real need for sordid News narratives. He abhors conventional creeds, clans & tribes.
He pities the profound petty mindedness
Of his contemporaries; those who are too blind
To read the bright symbols & signs
That flash across consciousness from time to time.