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,' 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

(C)
Copyright John Duffy