The Book, The Candle, And The Mirror

I groped the tomes of many metaphors

to gleam the metaphysical horizon

where I thought my steps had been cast before time began.

 

Through many lines I comb their wisdom,

but it didn’t give strength to my steps

or lead me to a terrace of light

that gave the stunning sense of déjà vu

nor lift the murky mist in meanderings

taking me constantly in circles.

 

Then in my haze I presumed perhaps in some darkness

true illumination would come,

the type that was forecast over my crib,

convinced this fog must lift

so I can finally see what form had been fated

for my future and real purpose.

 

In the catacombs where my head fell

there were countless candles to be found,

each having a different colored flame,

yet not a single hue warmed the cold

chilling my insides from a lack of identity.

 

Walking out into the noon

numb from the quests for point and meaning,

which had only taken me to a labyrinth of disillusionment,

resigned to the notion I had no actual calling

any place my soul and heart were meant to travel.

 

Then in my despair the sun’s ray stuck a store’s window,

it turned the pane into a silvery sheet

where I saw my reflection amid the landscape,

suddenly my mind’s eyes saw the quintessence of epiphany

within my head came such lucidity.

 

When I stopped searching within came the revelation intended

discovering my pause and haste my place in the day

being a heart intended to live each second appreciating its beauty

and let time finally take me to my destination in due season.