The Age Long Desired

The day we all wish to see.

There, it would seem,

In the course of the human soul,

And the emotions present within it

Are times of great longing.

Where the heart, nearly breaking

Is filled to the point

Of overflowing,

Of bursting,

Of tearing itself apart,

With some great want.

Whether it be one 

Of melancholy or elation.

Both serve to have the heart moved,

Pulled, pushed, poked, prodded,

To some object person, place, or thing,

And within the soul mournful cries

Doth ring.

At not having within their reach,

Their extended arms,

Their gasping lungs,

Their outstretched hands,

Barely, barely just

Touching the beloved.

The eyes perceiving, lusting after

What hands are forbidden

Or are walled off from having.

Some thing

Akin to the spirit of the desirer.

Some thing

To forever change or reinvent

The world the desirer has long 

Awaited for, long sought after.

The world must be changed.

But for whom and why?

But by what and how?

Where does the madness originate?

Where does the madness meet its fate?

Where, oh God, do the weary souls

Find the beloved hidden in the mist?

Where does the Age Long Desired

Appear before their corrupt,

Or tired,

Or depressed,

Or elated,

Or shocked,

Or fearful eyes?

Who stands in the Grove of Revelation?

Is it the Prince of Lies

Or the Savior of the World?

Who was the guide

And who was the provider?

Who held the desirer's hand on their treacherous journey?

Where does the master stand

And where does the puppet hang?

Where? Who? How? Why? What?

These are the questions,

The incessant inquiries

Of the desirer seeking relief

And satisfaction.

This is a place where we all

Have been,

Will be,

Or are presently residing in.

We all seek the Age Long Desired,

Sometimes for our own selves,

Sometimes for others,

Sometimes for some union.

It is always by our own hands, though

We wish to have it done.

To have the journey finished

And the work completed

Without aid from any loved one,

Without guidance from any master.

We wish to be rulers

Of our own kingdoms

And the man who sets its stones.

Both architect and engineer,

Both master and puppet.

This is all done

For the sake of the Age Long Desired.

To our fortune, followers may gather

To our joy and pleasure.

They pledge loyalty

And for our success they forge their path.

We then are truly masters.

As for the role of men with strings,

We always were bound there.

If it were not for the beloved,

The object of our quest,

We would have no strings

With which to hang ourselves.

The object provides the rope,

While, in our desire,

We build the gallows.

At the end, we are met by our desired,

And with it we shake hands

Or duel with bloody swords.

But in the course of Fate

And the Age Long Desired,

We were already dangling

From the rope

We thought our lifeline.

And the Age Long Desired

Becomes the Age Long Forgotten.