The Naked Troubadour

The Time Has Come (Part 2) [new poem]

Posted on Nov 19, 2020

The time has come to guard the fortress of your soul.
These are not the days to give yourself away for free
to anyone, just for the sake of wanting any company.
For predators whose goal you’ll never comprehend
dangle their candy-coated fishing-hooks before
your face and, in your haste to taste their sweet,
your fish-mouth chomps the bait; then it is too late.

The time has come to find a bolthole in the mountains
of your choice. For cities are all Babylon conglomerates
of insecurity which hide behind a lace-net curtained
proletocracy designed to stave off loneliness of heart.
But only when you’ve learned to live alone, yourself,
apart, far from the madding crowd, and thus be healed,
can you then start to be of use to others in your field.

The time has come to find out who on earth we are.
Not who we think we are — for that’s a jigsaw puzzle
painted by our clinging onto will-o’-wispness mind.
Behind all fantasies of self, there is a shadow realer
even than the sun which lit this planetary system
from day one. If we relinquish all the dross, I find,
that shadow will emerge and stun, with self refined.

The time has come to shed yourself of heavy loads
which hold you back: Of those now festering within
from early in your limitedful winterwistful days;
now hidden from your filtered stilted waterways.
Those engrams have outstayed their welcome
in your bodymind, enshrined themselves as long
unwanted guests 2 test your soul, so set them free.

The time has come to shed yourself of people too
thru whom you’ve only ever reaped a bitter harvest,
though you’ve told yourself (because you’ve learned
2 love what’s 2nd best or even 3rd) that vein is sweet.
You thought your little clique synonymous with ‘tribe’.
But you confused that warm seductive cosy little vibe
with agapé; and now you find there’s only hell to pay.

The time has come to see the future’s shocking blaze
of unglorific days thru lenses moulded not on earth
but crafted by angelic hands; thus light which passes
through is worth a myriad more than ordinary eyes.
For all that glitters now is not only not gold but dirt.
Without the lenses only beauteous angels can provide,
U will not C the difference between gold & damnified.

The time has come to waste no further years or days
on petty things, bandwagons, crazes, fashions, styles.
For in a little while, what you thought was solid ground
becomes a sandpit wherein only screams are found
by those who love the lie; and fulfilled dreams are had
by those whose love of truth defines their livelihood
and who against the force of darkness have withstood.

© Alan Morrison, 2020