The Flute’s Broken Mystic


The days were new enough to heal sorrow
The melodies innocent, mending remedies
When The Mystic lay her ballads down

Lotus-petal fingers, wood, whittled air
Fenced only by the infinite, folded by divinity
Notes woven to swaddle the earth in her arms

The first story she told and the first she dismissed
Creation bounded by infancy, mortality
Thus unheard within, decay’s counter-melody

Until at last she hears discord’s deafening roar
Breaking her spirit hands mid-note
Freezing phantom lips on Cherrywood

The future is the first to hear her fall
Enshrining relics to music’s moribund effigy
Sorceresses depart to leaf, wood, and stone

Beneath the shrine a frail flute sleeps
Longing for a Mystic’s gossamer touch
Knowing the grim permanence of casualty

Pebbles rise beneath feather feet
A quiet closeness on the path below


Jason Stelzner

Photo credit: Source: