As I sit upon this stone, watching the world go by like a river
I chance upon the mask I last wore, and what I wished to say,
Failing in expression as the writer will do, I let this flow away
Words can not paint with brushes Divine, neither can I give it.

Even the old priests knew this, and always drew like children,
making the 'educated' ponder their meaning, and wonder in it.
So as this I find myself, reduced to poetry in order to express,
What lives as always Eternal deep inside one who has beheld.

In myth there is great truth, and the 'facts' of this world, a Lie,
For Ration & Reason cannot darken it's door, not the senses Ply.
Give unto the way to express, in deep similes like old Heraclitus,
The ability to save like seeds in winter, my Fellows and my Soul.

The Gods of Man, like my Masks, are often made of red clay,
in this, the Wise do inquire; “What now comes but fades away?”
To Step once into the River Styx, and still, it is not the same,
Waves in flux just like an Illusion Grand, in this the oldest game.

Old Rhymes are broken into lines, refitted and put back together,
Just as dear Isis found Him there, amongst the blooming heather.
Do not make for me a wooden box that will only catch the rain,
Instead piece me back into a place upon the the Immortal plane.

Should I spend my time in stone, to keep this message impartial,
but unlike Me, the rocks of this world will crack, fade & brittle.
Paint in oils my Words hard one, no that will melt into the rains.
For what can withstand the River's flow, and remain the same?

Wisdom, cries Sophia, though wrought with Sorrow's increase,
Shows the Path to Eternal Love, of which the Ancients' speak.
For near those places old, dust does live, right along with mice.
Then you will know“You cannot step into the same river twice.”

Painting by Johannes Moreelse