The Hermit Chronicles: Castle Of Singularity

“…Disgusted at the guilt or absurdity of Mankind, the Misanthrope flies from it: He resolves to become a Hermit, and buries himself in the Cavern of some gloomy Rock…” – Matthew Gregory Lewis, The Monk
seattlestravels

I existed alone, in a little cave of nowhere, and was quite content to be exactly where I didn’t know. Gladly retiring to my castle of singularity, I sensed others, not prowling, but curious of my existence. I hid quietly, waiting for them to pass by like so many times before, but then the rustling stopped, the leaves breathlessly announcing a turn in the path leading to me. The steps crunched closer and my hiding place is revealed. I’ve discovered many places to hide, and in spite of my camouflage, there I’m found. I don’t want them to find me, I want to remain secluded, my resources won’t support their hunger and thirst. No matter how I try, they come. With desires no man can tame, they press me out of my comfort, pushing me to give a portion of myself. What is it about a man who desires no pleasure of company, that lures so many to invite themselves to just that, his company? The more I push and pull from society, the more curiosity I inspire. Can’t they just pass by and stop following me down these endless circling, rocky paths? Only to lay on me the guilt of their choice saying, “You never looked out for us, you led us down the wrong path”. Turn back little ones, fair maidens, here in this dark cave lies great desire, desire that will fuel the pain of loss, for only when you desire much can your hopes be dashed against the longing, when all you sought disappears in the dark once again.

05102013
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Knights Of Sleep

“Making love with a woman and sleeping with a woman are two separate passions, not merely different but opposite. Love does not make itself felt in the desire for copulation (a desire that extends to an infinite number of women) but in the desire for shared sleep (a desire limited to one woman).”
Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being

I feel the pull of desire against my eyes


The drawbridge lowers deep in my castles of thought


These arduous doors are opened by a courting call


Lit by darkened dreams not from the day


But by the undulating billows of subtle night


Missing my physical touch I find only a Queen of slumber


I reach for you to hold the fading ethereal way


I am left with only the encroaching knights of sleep

Death Of Our Seed – Death throes of love

The flowers anew, returning seasons bring! 
But beauty faded has no second spring.
Ambrose Philips
Would that I were a dry well, and that the people tossed stones into me, for that would be easier than to be a spring of flowing water that the thirsty pass by, and from which they avoid drinking.” – Kahlil Gibran

Image Credit: altitudinarian

I wander, looking, not feeling. Experiencing but remembering nothing. The taste is gone, bland are the fire scorched courses of your love. I wander around the echoing rooms of passions castle, like a spider hunting in the sedentary atmosphere, catching my supply and watching the inactivity with many points of view. My meandering desire leads me to other lands; stepping on the thorns of my morality, my feet are hesitant to find the new, knowing it violates the old. Satisfaction, though fleeting, is found in errant trysts. Excuses are easy to make when I am dilapidated; rotten and broken like the old planks in the floor. Shoving the rusted door of our haven, the hinges squeal in loud eery cries, giving up their life in broken protest; they can no longer bear the lack of attention. Revelations are born in tense moments, your eyes meet mine and the truth wants to be spoken, yet remains hidden; these are haunting times. Lovers find it hard to pull the trap door on the hangman’s rig; to see their intimacy in death throes, struggling at the end of the rope of boredom. The sun rises, a strong wind blows, a storm is coming; it hits hard and washes away the mementos of years, bringing relief. Nature does what I loath to do, destroying the useless and dangling appendages of a dead love, giving birth to hope on the dry and barren paths. In this newness I linger, amazed at what comes from the death of love; like the death of a seed, it breaks the hardened ground with fingers of new passion, restoring my faith and blinding me again with lust unconfined and unexplored.

Also published in Broowaha Citizen Magazine

Death Of Our Seed – Death throes of love

The flowers anew, returning seasons bring! 
But beauty faded has no second spring.
Ambrose Philips
Would that I were a dry well, and that the people tossed stones into me, for that would be easier than to be a spring of flowing water that the thirsty pass by, and from which they avoid drinking.” – Kahlil Gibran

Image Credit: altitudinarian

I wander, looking, not feeling. Experiencing but remembering nothing. The taste is gone, bland are the fire scorched courses of your love. I wander around the echoing rooms of passions castle, like a spider hunting in the sedentary atmosphere, catching my supply and watching the inactivity with many points of view. My meandering desire leads me to other lands; stepping on the thorns of my morality, my feet are hesitant to find the new, knowing it violates the old. Satisfaction, though fleeting, is found in errant trysts. Excuses are easy to make when I am dilapidated; rotten and broken like the old planks in the floor. Shoving the rusted door of our haven, the hinges squeal in loud eery cries, giving up their life in broken protest; they can no longer bear the lack of attention. Revelations are born in tense moments, your eyes meet mine and the truth wants to be spoken, yet remains hidden; these are haunting times. Lovers find it hard to pull the trap door on the hangman’s rig; to see their intimacy in death throes, struggling at the end of the rope of boredom. The sun rises, a strong wind blows, a storm is coming; it hits hard and washes away the mementos of years, bringing relief. Nature does what I loath to do, destroying the useless and dangling appendages of a dead love, giving birth to hope on the dry and barren paths. In this newness I linger, amazed at what comes from the death of love; like the death of a seed, it breaks the hardened ground with fingers of new passion, restoring my faith and blinding me again with lust unconfined and unexplored.

Also published in Broowaha Citizen Magazine