© 2019 The Illusion of I. All Rights Reserved.
The mountain before me, is one that I know
My footprints are visible from the previous climb
Aaah you old mountain, my old foe!
Do I have the strength to climb you this time?
Longing, is said to be the whisper of god
To draw us towards, that which is one
Seeing my footprints I have to tread where I trod
Because you, o mountain cannot be undone.
Last night I swam in my tears of sorrow
And today, there’s a flood of anguish and pain
I can only imagine what will come of tomorrow
How long do I have to traverse this broken terrain?
The road of the righteous, is narrow and steep
A wise man once told an exuberant crowd
Why do I have to walk it again? I ask as I weep
Answer me wise man! I lament out loud
My feet are refusing to begin this ascent
But deep down I know, I really shouldn’t dwell
I dare not look around, as I pick up a scent
The scent is familiar; it is the scent of hell.
Poetry is the language of the mystic. Here are my attempts at speaking this language.