The Impulse Of The Mysterious

From where comes this impulse, This mysterious sanctity in shadowed icons, Of statues leaning into dusk, hands clasped piously, Dangling chains of stones, ending in crossed bones. Men hold deep reservoirs of the mystical Concealed in secret niches inside them, That no one can ever see, like relics of the humanity That revered the stars, and did moon-gaze communion. These worshipers of life, with their trinkets and shells, Thinking you can see god one day, If only you look hard enough, Or travel to some exotic city Which he is rumored to prefer. Though sometimes profound art can- almost Touch, and now and then music- barely- imitates What the tightest lock can’t hold in, Nor the loosest hold force out. This god that only the dead can see, but they do not talk, And only the deaf can hear, but they do not listen, Who lives where distance has no meaning And hate can never steal.