Mystic At Vulcan’s Mirror (I am Here)
Wednesday Prose Poem: the inserted story
No wonder Vulcan’s eruptions are so volatile. He forged a mirror to show him his past, present, and future. That spectacle — along with his lascivious goddess wife Venus slinking off to consort with Mars — ensures that chaos scorches what comes to light.
Not even the gods endure the unknowable without guidance.
And what of us mortals? Only those blinded by arrogance, ignorance, and loneliness yearn for sights reflected by that mirror. Which blight obscures my vision then? Perhaps all three.
Ultimate sight might liberate; to see — I mean really see — at least once before surrendering this weary, ruminative form, becoming ash laid upon fertile volcanic soil, yielding to a field of fuchsia wildflowers.
And from whom could we seek guidance? Mystics cross-reference births with arcane interpretations — stellar cartography, tea leaves, tarot — ending knowledge quests with shrugs, vague platitudes about the afflicted losing the will to live and the like.
Shamans pray upon ancestor’s bones long lost to four winds of diaspora. Witch doctors concoct bad-medicine for good fortune. Scientists manufacture effective medicine to desensitize, distract from ineffectual lives.
