By Stephen Roberts
The mystical-poet is a strange mix of creature that can taste the mystery of tranquility found in a deep forest or a trickling stream. And with a trembling hand and a quill filled with tears for ink, writes love across an ocean of open hearts.
They write not to entertain, but to release. Nor to explain, but to deepen the mystery.
I believe they are somewhat recluse in thought, with a beautiful eccentricity that invites accusations of madness.
Maybe these comprehensive souls have learned to bleed publicly and are content to be damned as heretics, yet remain beloved of God.
They delight in the world of words. Playing with these grains of sand knowing full well the smallness of their perceptions, but write on they do – write on they must.
Their world is filled with nectar – thick with both joy and sorrow, of heartache, of longing, and of profound peace.
In this confusing miasma of conflicted waters there mingles an uncanny ability to see beyond. To glimpse like a seer into the vastness.
If they could write silent, wordless poetry, they would. The stillness demands it, but the immensity of love they feel in the pulse of creation invites a cry, muffled though it may be.
Thus, their words are filled with an infinity-breath as they sigh at each passing thought, knowing full well their poverty of language and the weakness of expression that so often beguiles them into lesser metaphors.