The Retired Prophet

From creche, I have been told of you.
Your name felt familiar from the first,
rattling in my head,
like a long forgotten lesson.
Like a key.

I've grown older.
I've grown old.
I retreated to the deserts,
and to the high places,
where none but you may tread.

I kept looking,
yet you did not call out to me.
I've kept looking,
but my eyes could not see you,
could not see your fingers in the wind.

I accepted it;
that we will not meet,
in this lifetime.
I'd grown to fear it;
that you are not here.

And then, you've summoned me.
You called out to yourself,
and the you within me resonated,
called back.
And I've come to face you.

At long last.

I have looked into your unseen face,
and listened to your ineffable cries.
I burned with them.
I burned with you.
I burned with relief, and washed with tears.

I set out into the mortal world once more,
carrying your truth like a torch,
to burn fear and darkness,
to shine your glory,
to shine my love.

And they have come to love the message,
more than they loved the truth.
And they have come to love the messenger,
more than they loved the truth.
O My Brothers and Sisters!

And you, O Truth,
shrank back into your deserts,
into your caves,
into your high places.
Without me.

More than you feared
their lack of understanding,
you feared my burning love,
my understanding, the clear sight,
of you.

You did not withdraw from the world,
for you had long since done so.
But you withdrew from me,
hoping against hope,
to not be singed by my flames.

You called out to me.
But it was you, that you sought,
and loving your own child,
your own cry,
is not so easy.

Even when you are Truth Itself.

You brought me to see your deserts,
but then feared the fires in my eyes.
You brought me to hear your windy mountaintops,
but then you feared the song in my soul.
You sought then, to undo all you have wrought.

Yet not all.

You cautioned me.
Telling me you are not Everything,
and that it is my own truth,
shining within me,
lighting the world afire.

You told me to go
to the great libraries of the world,
and to drink deep from knowledge,
though I told you all knowledge is yours,
but reflected.

O Truth,
you told me of the follies of rationality,
and yet in your despair,
you ushered me to them,
so you may not disappear in my faith.

And you withdrew from me.
Leaving me to burn up.
Leaving me to burn out,
without your smile,
to sustain the fires.

And so I sought out books,
to feed your fires,
smoking still within me,
banked, but not doused,
so they may not die out.

And there,
far from your message,
and far from those who would love me,
your messenger,
I cooled and tempered my flames.

In trying to show the world of you,
I have learned that you have your limits.
I doubted, and in doubting, thought.
I thought, and in thought, was.
Was alone, once more.

Alone with my truth.
Alone with you.
I seek to unchain myself,
to have you let my self blaze up
in your glory,
and the glory of our love,
and of our reflected natures,
of our cries for the truth the other bears,
once more.

Until then,
I jealously guard these fires that burn within me,
which you have called for,
to not let cold rationality drown them out.
Not even you, will I permit that.

The flames, once wild,
now controlled, burn still.
I look to you,
still yours.
Still true.

If last week's two poems, Illusions and The Hermit were thesis and anti-thesis, then this poem is their synthesis. It draws on their subject matter. It draws on their themes. And it brings both of them closer together.

This poem is as always, dedicated to @mamadini, who speaks within me, and whose words spring forth as poetry.

Thanks to all the @isleofwrite members, and especially @carolkean, @whoshim, @carmalain7, and @authorofthings for feedback on this piece.

Check out my latest posts:

• K-On! Like Lying in the Sun on a Warm Afternoon
• Living with a Chronic Illness - Chronic Depression

Art and flair courtesy of @PegasusPhysics

The Image used is The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters (El sueño de la razón produce monstruos), by Francisco Goya, 1799, and is public domain.

© Guy Shalev 2018.