The Path of Solitude

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic

A short poem about the desire for solitude.

Submitted: August 25, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: August 25, 2018



The Path of Solitude


Weary was I in the Spring to despise of the
divined. Fluorescent, radial, obnoxious lines designed
of intent to captivate the eyes.

A serpent condemned to moltate against the
molesting granules, embedded sentiments. Slithering
on walls of mausoleum tiles.

A spoil of soil did I then apprehend
for the veteran ascetic, deject contemporary
prevailed against profound puzzlement.

For eons enslaved herded heads of the shaved
tattooed, and dyed malarial hive, so grotesquely abides.
So I stole away with honey pre-mined.

Not time did I pay to compensate how a patch
of kindling and grass became fortuneless frills with sturdy frame.
Standing alone was my civilization.

The hard-hatted, hot tempered beavers retreated
leaving behind an inaudible agreement to never
exhale bereavement predestined.


Taken was I off epidermal anchors
upon first rotation, summoned a spectral gaze piercing window
panes, remaining vague to this day.

Librarian and scribbling scribe sitting in study
I aroused, instinctually contesting in protest of
an unwelcomed voyeur of silence.

Passing the curtain I unfastened the latches
“You, height of a shrub shrouded in darkness, behold my furnace
and converse away loneliness.”

“Nay,” it spoke, “your hearth not resplendent, unseemly
would it be of me, illustrious presence. But by this list
I might sneak inside at your graces.

A thesis, it guided my next morn’s adventure
trimming thicketed trails that I cannot remember. Likewise
my bruises, which healed over Winter.

Stabbing by sticks with bone weathered fingertips did
quaintly sequester Master and Lord into hunter, who
ceaselessly sought skeletal baubles.

Meek, my body deplete of blood and breath
from consecrating fruitless oases, while perish at home
my achlorophyllous forest.

Under the sun’s shadow I scaled in search of a seed
a serrated tree covering. Deed in hand, a killjoy spider
abased composure, grip mediocre.

Awake after restless sleep. The last illusion
I could see, ascending branches spiraling to warp and bend
my steady spine. Leave, they lay behind.

Amused, my muse said, “I saw.” With clenched jaw reply,
“Denouncement, these sacrifices result not symbiosis.”
“Unlike you is this common weakness…

Halfway full the chalice stands, why deny war-torn
hands, committed untold of worthwhile acts?” Without funds
I was too spent to waste retreating.

Yet boldly snarled, “Anything’s better.” At this
finally beheld its lips. “Alone you built, so shall you live
forevermore, or never again.”


With guest was I, conjoined lover, my only friend
who stayed forever rarely ventured in. Teasing ecstasies
beyond sensual appreciations.

Until path between creaking limbs leading away
from my home. Purposeless, but receiving of skits enacted
before a speechless audience.

Entombed raccoon who knew of origin and too
orientation, embracing the impossibility of
homecoming. Perhaps a meal next day.

Downward more a void dipped snake sat twitching from flies’
sadistic torment. Reaching the stream, their righteous fun ended.
Hunched to see, back looked a reflection.

“Best luck my good friend.” High screech from familiar crow
my love competing with empathy, while for me was a
first, was so justly also my last.

© Copyright 2020 Justin Evanoff. All rights reserved.

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