The Voice of a Hermit

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
N/A

Submitted: February 21, 2013

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Submitted: February 21, 2013

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He sat in bed, waiting for day, And he stared, he stared into the emptiness of his house, His clothes, pyjamas, were worn for so long, It had woven into his skin, Ripping savagely into his veins, it was his workclothes, homeclothes, bedtimeclothes, And he stared.

Voices of pleasure did nothing, As it made him think of it as foolish for them, As they did not know what was to come.

The only glitter of light, Was his computer, dazzling and dancing with spectacles, He had seen before, a thousand times before, The same sights, he had seen.

Memories faded to reveal what was, And what shall really be, What Was spoke of promises for invites, friendships, and lasting Happyness, friends would visit his domain, and he would visit theirs, parties would happen, and he would be at every one of them, Reality spoke of darkness and Loneliness being his habitat, his “friends” averting their gaze away from him, he did not have to ask, It was his Kingdom of dust, his Empire of dirt.

Now he stares, his eyes fixed, never moving, never stopping, Never faltering, never changing, And he stares.


© Copyright 2020 Jon Terrance. All rights reserved.

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