Recluse

 

396px-Old_Man_with_his_Head_in_his_Hands_(At_Eternity's_Gate)

 

The only memory is alone.

Others pass under the window,

hats, tops of heads

like wandering waves

against black asphalt.

They come but mostly go

and never stop.

 

The skyline is cardboard –

will be removed.

The shops across the lane

are doused by traumaed

traffic lights that bounce

on bedroom walls,

on pillow cases choked,

soaked blind.

 

The furniture touches

with dead hands, as inners

thrust, lacquer

bile-smeared sweat

a satin gray.

The mirror stares back –

disgusted at skin

shriveled sugar brown,

with matted hair

drawn close as dying clover.

 

Insomnia is adventure

that chooses with relish

not to sleep,

it preoccupies,

is human.

Muscles taut, ricket,

lumped and fetal,

struggling with existence –

barely knowing –  but alive.

 

Forgetting how to tell it,

nothing is true.

Only the collecting filth

is dependable.

The room shrinks.

The dust is moved by

melting walls,

thick parched rust

in heavy rain,

it becomes an exiting

sediment seeking rest.

 

This is what I am –

total freedom,

suspended sediment,

synapses sifted,

shattered, snapped,

breaths released,

never missed,

soul sought tangents

never gained.

5 comments

  1. Hi Craig

    this is a stark and intense portrait of the “recluse”. The metaphoric description below is a one reason this poem haunts with such fervor, it makes one shiver and recognize the hopelessness of the is man.

    The mirror stares back –

    disgusted at skin

    shriveled sugar brown,

    with matted hair

    drawn close as dying clover.

    and the descriptive elements in the room also add the poignancy and desperation of the poem’s theme. Fine writing that really brings the reader in and allows his “struggling existence” to felt and remembered. Thank you for sharing this! I was sincerely moved..

    My Best
    wendy

    Like

  2. Dear Craig,

    This one aches clear to the bone; at the same time it celebrates the power of poetry.
    Who would have thought a pen could conjure such utter desolation? There’s the rub.
    It was not the pen…It was the hand that held the pen, a strong one guided by a fruitful muse.

    Your poem speaks for millions across our planet. The condition of aloneness knows no boundaries.
    You remind us, as we scurry about the festivities of the upcoming season to take a minute, to make
    a minute to share a smile, a hug, a pumpkin pie.

    You demonstrate how the pen is truly more powerful than the sword. The craftsmanship, the vision,
    the innate gift of talent, shared… this poem gives so much.

    Thank you!

    Sarah

    Like

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