Solitude

An evocative nature poem, by Lipsa, exclusively for Different Truths.

I chose this life.
Not atop mountains ghastly and cold
Ascension into unstoppable surges of light
(Seldom the desire of the worldly man.)

But to work behind closed doors,
In a chamber barely furnished
On a cold granite floor,

While out the window
Summer comes and Summer goes,
Autumn bleaches into winter
And the painter paints an azure spring,
Coloured with the fragrance of flowers.

Once they meant something
When the mind flitted
And the heart was torn in war
Between the heavenly and the grotesque;
Between the deciduous and the forever green
Plain to the eyes and constant beyond.

No, I will not come out
’Til the last twig of life has burned.
It will be an ordeal of a lifetime, true,
And more than once I shall cry,
Scream at the unfeeling walls,
Pray to deaf gods to take away the pain,
And be consoled only by my own cold hands;
But the tears will dry
Sure, long before I die,
The agony will lessen,
And the pain will fade;
Soon, I’ll be calm again,
Then I’ll strain and stride
Through thick volumes and unending rimes
Till my eyes are sore
And the brain can take no more.

I know naught of the destination
But the road is mine own;
For every tear I shed
I’ll drink a pint of determination
And every metre closer to death
Will be a mile distant from procrastination.
I’ll walk
On and on.

Photo from the Internet