Mystics & Watchers

They rise - the lover and dreamer, the watcher and the mystic - not by chance or by powerless circumstance, but by fate, who speaks by metered means "Return. The name of thy beginning awaits thee."

More of sky than of ground, are they, and soil holds little solace. Blinding day does not enliven, but those glistening clusters and rapturous ponds of silver that reach across immortal voids. There is their treasure. That, their blissful aim and portion. For this, they abide the daily donning of pinion and truss.

And yet, fate sings and rings her spheral chimes, and breaks the spell woven by day, so that they may rise in this vigilous pursuit, and lay claim to treasure held safe beneath those bright spattered pools. She strikes the polished surface of midnight rays, to lay bare inherent eagerness and stir the hopeful heart to move in ancient inquiry.

Each night, upon the lustrous beams they move in search of the true and the hidden. They rise - the lover and dreamer, the watcher and mystic - not by solitary casualty, nor by feeble error, nor tresspass, but by that bidding, "Return. The name of thy beginnings awaits thee."

© Rachelle LeCount
(A revision of a previous work)

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