“Mysticism is the attempt to get rid of mystery.” — Roger Fry

As Isaac Newton aged, after his fundamental discoveries breached the borders of the human mind, he grew wary of exposing God to the dislocations of science and chose to disembark from his interrogation as truth seeker into a materialistic dictator of the Royal Society, prone to plagiarism.

 

Waiting for all of this to come about 

He was washed over by the tide

Expecting some level of materialistic sanctity 

A silent hovel for his immersion 

While clinging to a despotic well-wrought figure

Who would prop himself up just enough 

To barricade him from the useless pain

 

But he was awaiting nothing

Nothing would draw him in or give him comfort 

Within the terrestrial finger embrace of the left

 

He was covetous for all of these ironic moments 

When he would usurp the plagiaristic soul

And extract forth some level 

Of honest observation

Of the way that prisms played with the light 

To draw it in and refrangibilate it into colors 

Disenfragmented across the spine of rainbows 

Only to recover the wholeness of clear white light 

Of the other side of the mirror 

 

Was he extraordinarily beyond sententious?  He always was

Was he a trepidatious monster?  It is what he would become 

Unable to allow those around him

To escalate in the grace of evolutionary intellectualism 

He would instead cause their souls to rot

Take away his pretentions of kindness 

After drawing them into a mother’s horde 

Relinquishment of doubt 

 

Was there gravity?  There surely was

There surely was the drawing of apples to the ground 

Of the measurement to the mean of the bone of the law

Of the expansion of Kepler’s laws

To measure out elliptical pathways

And reach the threshold of calculus 

 

But there would come a space and time 

When he would disregard the mystic 

When he would set aside the breach of science 

To plummet down the matchstick tenement walls

Blocking the space outside the physical lines of nature 

 

He had accepted it all as final truth 

And closed down the angelic patterns revealing 

The fractal intonation of forms 

Meandering and lingering like 

Holistic ghost vessels paddling surreptitiously 

Up to the shoreline of the unconsciousness

 

To profit up and aggrandize the egoic mind 

To create a circumference of unerring space 

A surrounding viking corral of penitential believers

To protect him from the denigrations 

Of his plagiaristic mind 

 

This was one more episode 

At the end 

After all the discovery 

There was a solace of tombs

Where he would keep sheltered inside 

The seeking mind 

To prevaricate livelihood 

Within the hallowed halls of the Royal Society 

Of the Royal Mint

Upon the platforms of material admiration 

Closing down the prismatic pathways 

That had once delivered him into the divine