Press play. Salute.
Tenebris Oculi (L) AKA Robert Olmstead
(A lone voice whispers)
To all the mysterious souls just lost beyond my second sight and long reach
Hiding somewhere unknown in Father Times long silver grass
Lying scattered across all the bluest of ocean's and before all the greatest of Antarctic lakes
Quietly reading and trying to compose inspired poetry
Beseeching their inner minds great portico to quickly open
And spill forth
Secretive words only once whispered and spoken in the darkest of corridors
Celebrating the festival of Karneia on the fourth
By the Pythia to bathe within its spectacular potency
In ancient Apollo's
candlelit yellow temples in Pompeii
In cold wintery nights
May these channelled words find a way
To weave a magical spell to beguile your own inquisitive mind and everlasting soul
To be slowly opened up with Apollo's ritual athame everywhere you go
For you to then find the courage to breach your own inner great gates
To finally find and drink from that mystical ever-flowing well
Found in the centre of all things
By only the true believers like you and the many travellers of the profound
Seeking to taste whatever their spirits really desire and then hoping to make the return journey home
Filled and sated and dancing mentally to a new sound
Announcing the arrival of their life's only holy obligation
To then write profusely
Be it at midnight or throughout the long days
Recalling and narrating the many sacred strands
And complex explorations of the many layers of human emotions
That comes smiling or snarling their way
From those just hidden beneath all blue and green seas
The Great Old Ones
So be it
Copyright John Duffy
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