Living life alone, even in a crowd,
a family, a love affair,
is not so different as the life
of a hermit. I can be as solitary
in those circumstances
as any Essene on the lam
in the mountains of the Holy Land.
But instead of hiding and meditating
in a shrub-shrouded cave,
I stare at you from behind this
amusement park persona, a charade
of light, noise and motion,
keeping your world entertained, at bay,
by abruptly changing direction
and emotional altitude.
Sometimes I send you away from the show
the worse for the climb, like a heretic-hunter
worn from the search for my spiritual fore-bear.
My head, this cave of seclusion,
is where I ineveitably pull back
when I can’t push away,
crouching in its darkest cutting crevices,
cold, relying on its dim light
for illumination enough to contemplate
why I would want or need
to stay hungry and naked like this.
Even more, I wonder why you keep trying
to pry me out of here when
you don’t really want me anyway.