Mad and Mysterious

I used to pour oil on canvas
outdoors with brushes
or pigment-stained
fingertips, but if I care
to look back
it was really through soul.
From a heart too hurt
for purity but aching
for so much more,
something real, true and holy —
like glimpsing eternity
through the trees
approached, if at all,
through love’s front door.

It was a lonely walk filled
with all kinds of folks,
from friends to family and strangers
crowding out the stage
with so many roles
still left to play.
And I thought or hoped
they’d see what I could see
far off in the distance
yet achingly near.
Beauty in a weathered face
or blooming flower
or beneath a sea of stars
shining just overhead
which all reflected,
if you slowed down
and cared
to look close enough,
the mad and mysterious
ways of divinity.

But what they really saw
was never mine to know.
For a heart only beats
what it holds,
and what it does
seems to be its supposed
flawed and fatal humanity.
Or like a child
unlearning curiosity
which refuses to stretch
for straws seemingly out of reach,
is only left to believe
in what you can see
and touch and taste.
What a waste.