TO MINDREAD A MYSTIC
I
When seasons end
Poets become mute
Their fun begins
They call it
Madness
It feels so normal
Is tolerance of pain
Suicide’s slow motion
Crippling the insane
The need to give
Desire to share
And they just don’t care
Sanctification
Exists for some
Best in death
II
Aromas bear meaning
Without language yet
Any creature understands
How can I know
If you smell
Just like I do
Only a saint can make
One smell different
To all under a holy spell
Telepathic blood
Speaks unexpectedly
To select of the brood
Incense perfume and mace
Can each shock the face
Depending on time and place
III
The family
Is a prism to display
Many mothers
Not all orphans
Seek their mother
Whose love can smother
A goddess
Can address
The need to repress
When incapable
Of carnal love a virgin
Mother is essential
A perfect mother
Can never fail
The frail
IV
Earth will not change
Hence prayer
To arrange the strange
A soul in a
Healthy man
Disappears after death
A soul in a
Holy man lives
Beyond its owner
One who prays alone
Is admired by many
If able to change the immutable
Leading prayers
Draws many
Acting as one
V
Hard to take one space
To be all over the place
Yet giving no trace
Having but one face
Avoiding one grand disgrace
One without a trace
What the hell is grace
Certainly not clothes of lace
Find that earthly place
Moving at a pace
Reality can’t displace
Nor truth can replace
Rock steady for in case
You are bound to a disgrace
You can keep the pace
T. M. Shorewick 