24 05 2010


In your cave of clothes
Dank, reeking
of sulfurous detergent
Ties hanging, stalactites
Asphyxiating turtlenecks
a skeleton in the corner, still rotting
Secrets lost in the creases

The hermit refuses to leave.

Wardrobe and lies expand
but instead of yearning for the open sunlight,
he shrinks himself,
insignificant as the lint in the pockets.
Family and friends familiar with his shadow
on the wall
his distorted voice behind sliding doors
unaware of his true face
Soulless sweaters and vests,
He knows them best.

I’ve come with questions
But your answers are prepared
“No” echoing to silence.
Caves have no doors:
Is this really the only place you want to know?



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