The Hermit

Somewhere in the war between winter and spring waging in a backyard,

half scrawled promise against promiscuity that severed spider limbs from moth balls,

made mania from a mammoth making mischief,

contemplating meeting Mason in the immediacy,

lost between heartbreak and bliss.

 

Miss “cheevious” and chortling,

contemporary lost to mortality,

the stream that spit the consciousness on top of this,

that split to shift the depth of the problems he was having.

This noose is all that’s left of his genius and his despair,

torn between the worlds both here and there,

if he had had a heroine instead of that which coursed through veins,

perhaps he’d not have had to escape through the pain.

 

But he didn’t, took loneliness to fidget

with trinkets that reflected every diss perceived and privileged,

he took coward’s coarse, and all remorse was housed in those who knew him,

incongruent, gashed and witches brewing,

single file down memory’s aisles and altogether stewing,

strewing sticky syrups and the baking goods

across the floor and cleaned up crude,

bottled all his angst inside a bottle for the one who should

uncork it,

shape it like the clay

that harkened in the days before man was ever made.

 

There’s a cliff somewhere he’s carved his name,

where lover’s lilacs are laid to tame

the demons that encircle his headstone-less place

he ran from ’cause he could not muster a damn to save his grace.

 

Baseless bravado and bragging rights

kiss him goodnight

force him forward to his plight

assuring him it’s all alright –

it will be brighter once you close your eyes

and quit trying to find a place to hide.

 

 

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