Burned By The Light

When I was young so young so long ago. Of an age, teenage, and less, much much less. I used to say, to myself; repeatedly, to myself. ‘I am a voice crying in the wilderness. Who am I? Who am I? ’ When I was young so young so long ago. Of an age, teenage, and less, much much less. I used to ask this question. Constantly this question. ‘Words are the tools of my trade. Who am I? What am I? ’ It was ever an unanswered question. No one except I, myself, could ever give an answer. It was only I who saw the lamp. ‘I saw the lamp.’ I saw the lamp shining in the darkness. I saw the lamp so softly so warmly glowing. Like mesmerized moth I danced, circling birthright ring of fire, as I ever tread my mesmeric path, ever onward in ill conceived, yet impulsive soul quest; to attain purity affixing hypnotic source flame lighting celestial stairway, to glorious clear star laid heavens. When I was young so young, my wise grandmother, my Grandmother Alice Craddock, the wisest woman, and the wisest old woman; I ever knew, called me ‘old tot’ and ‘the little old man’. Later starting school, my aunt, my aunt Glenis, said I was one of those old ones, that had walked this world before. Somehow somewhere, deep past mind song, I knew. Both poet and prophet know clairvoyant knowledge; at moments of soul sparkling radiant revelation. I know why chosen ever stand alone. I know why and I could tell you so! But you do not really want to know! Christ purchase price is too much to pay, walk away walk away while you still may, before sharp turned impetuous revealing light, pierces mind’s tightly sealed scales night; and raptured mind; is ever opened remodelled landscapes, to mystic invading impaling visions; from elemental environs skirting God-created universal order, contained not within opiate dream state. That haunts closeted dull day and endless evocative night; during continuing duration, defining hermitage restless life. In 1999 I passed penicilian passionate again a final hope filled resolution. I no more would wax poetic write throughout day deadened night; blindly following muse bewitching divining faith mesmeric light; but my accursed verse condition apparently leads enticing on until collective absolution hearse. I still abide perpetually within ablution dreamer’s disease compulsive fevers... Embodied tortured would swift abstain such soulful suffering if they could. I was young so young so long ago. Early childhood mist memory is so enchantingly like, an awakened forgotten dream state. And yet even foetus infant foreknown then, I carried full confined weight, containing overflowing, past lived life fragmented years. Were these, residue resonant weight, vibrating cruel years, I once carried, in strife torn; past lived heroic life? Or premonitions, of still more promised pain, yet to arise? For true prophet, death like that of struck dead cat; is numbered from more than one. “... and they stoned Paul and dragged him outside the city, imaging he was dead. However, when the disciples surrounded him, he rose up and entered into the city. And the next day he left with Barnabas...” Acts 14: 19-20. In harmonic thrice perfect form, of perfect three, according to sphere, of numerological angelic hierarchy. For nine is the prescribed principal figure of virtue. Which virtuous human mind aspires to; in compelled hopes; of attainment; equating to completion. Differing differential is massive or infinitesimal change, wide is road leading off to destruction, for those who create their own rules, or religions to suit themselves. Copyright © Terence George Craddock