Mysticism and its Paraphernalia

Once again, I stare at a blank canvas,
Waiting to be filled, however faintly,
With some presage of color, something
Spilled like paints from my heart.

I wait, and consult the mandala,
I open the window and consult
The moon, the stars, and all of
The immense darkness besides.

A horoscope, the augur of tarot
Cards, the reading of my own palm,
The indefinable current sensation
Of my continued existing.

I stand and pace aimlessly around
This room all too unfamiliar alight,
With its cold tiles and my cold feet,
Hearing the sound of my own breathing.

I look towards the wall, see past it
And imagine everything and all beyond
This terse veil of life, towards some

Other inescapable wishy-washy,
Good-for-nothing,
All-too-familiar,
Piece of mind.

Finished, a full canvas that I naught
Know how came to be, I sip my tea,
With a sigh of relief, yet another day
I´m devoured by my own uncertainty.

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