True Seekers

One day, fame came calling.

He just wanted to see whether we were

Everything we're cracked up to be.
 

But we aren't immortals in flowing robes

With stylists and personal trainers to mould us.

We're not glamorous.  We're just
 

Druids.  So fame left, shaking his head

Wondering what he'd been thinking;

What illusion he'd been chasing.
 

It was florescent light, and not

The light of a god, he saw.  People like this

Could never hold the keys
 

To the Mysteries, for how could people

Without mystique ever really be

Mystics?  Where does one meet
 

The extraordinary, if not far, far away

From the average, the everyday?

Something was surely amiss.

We watched fame walk away

In mingled relief and dismay

Wishing he were ready. Wishing
 

He remembered that mystics and shamans
Are outsiders; shape-shifters,
Clowns and cross-dressers.  And yes,

Wishing too that we were still
Young and glamorous, so that instead
Of skulking in corners to spy on us

Seekers might walk up and say
"It is me.  I am ready.
What would you teach me?" 

Then the game would be on
For all of us.  Then we could
Change the world.
 

Perhaps we will be too tired

When the true Seekers come. Perhaps

What we know will be lost.
 

That is the cost of illusion and ego

Of fear and preconceived notions.

Maybe the planet can wait

Until next time.