The Last One Standing

After the white heat,
skies abound with dead insects.
The fountain of life
is permanently broken.
That's what I perceive
in these chilling dream-visions.
O give me a guide,
who can take me by the hand,
and show me things of
value within these kingdoms
of desolation:
where false wants replace real needs!
Be it dream or be
it nightmare, I can discern
all the warning signs,
despite dark clouds in my eyes .
Figures of greatness
are emerging from the haze.
One who is hooded;
who seems to drift, in and out
of Time, like a calm
spectre has particular
relevance for me.
For he is not of this world.
O there is too much
of the wilderness in him!
I cannot recall
whether he was once poet,
prophet, monk or saint,
perhaps he was all these things.
Yet I am drawn to
his presence, as the wind stirs,
and the metal leaves
flutter. The light is fading.
Although it's hard
to recall his grand purpose,
I remember his
halo and his forthright stance,
in the old Art wars.
He was the last one standing.
I am curious
To listen to his wise words.,,