The Lost Realist

I squint in the distance,
Through the murky fog,
The outlines of his form dance,
At the beat of an unseen clock.

Our eyes seem to meet,
But I stand there, unmoved,
Awaiting for him to greet,
To prove something unproved.

He stays silent, starts to walk,
With a monk’s resounding gait,
As if saying, “I don’t need to talk”
Leaving me standing, agape.

Slowly, he comes close to me,
And I see his resplendent face,
“I have come to you,” says he,
“To show you a wonderful place.”

He points his finger to my chest,
But I fail to understand his intent.
The fog vanishes at his behest,
And suddenly, I see what he meant.

Laughing at my ignorance,
I see him vanish into my sea,
He was my own presence,
I listened to my own plea.

When the fog of ignorance leaves you of your own will, you will see, within your heart’s folds lies a sea of boundless peace.