The Hermit
The campfire roared, as the children found plenty of room to curl by the warm flames on a cool night. A crisp air bit little red noses and tickled their senses, as the excitement of the primal event shuddered at their petite feet. The leader among them implored them all to grab a seat, to let dry lips brush wet water as he had a tale to tell:
In a far away camp, not unlike this one, my loves, in a far away camp lived a hermit. He tended to his sheep with a cruel hand and kind eyes, lonely eyes. He spent his days farming and his nights weeping—so loud that the whole camp, of kids not unlike us, would shudder in their sleeps and pray they wouldn’t sleepwalk into the land of lonely, the land of the hermit, the land of the sheep. The kids made a pact that if one was to walk, the others would catch him; break his bones if they must! No blessings of companionship for the hermit, they’d rather die. At this thought, the hermit would tend to his ever-blossoming flock, his ever-shrinking thoughts of a time without lonely, with children, without pain, with love. He’d flaccidly retreat into his hut which functioned like a womb and wait for maternal hand, for paternal love to sweep him away, but the children’s laughter stung him through the night, where the air is colder, where sound travels looser and would bite him, maul him, exacerbate frozen wounds now open, still tender.
The hermit on one of these unjust nights, not unlike this one, crawled out of his bed and slithered across the floor to his moccasins. His battle shoes, his tender sheep shoes, his mourning shoes, and now his evening shoes. The shearing scythe, the mute screams of the sheep, the dried blood, the moist memories. He made his way stealthily into the camp. Not a sound, nary a whisper as he went on through the ground. He knew where the children played, he knew where the empty echoes traveled to his cottage in the night, where the caressed his infliction, where they dug nails in his stigma. The smell of a fire, not unlike this one, the sight of flames, the sound of children, evil specters all around, gathered in an embrace of what he knew not, he could not, they would not let him. The sheep knew the language of the shearing scythe and now so would the children:
As the hermit jumped athwart the fire and plunged the instrument into the leader’s heart, who had just finished his story. The screams of the children masquerading as music at a ball, a coming out party, his new birthday, their death day. The upward motion of the scythe catching moon’s reflection and hurtling the light into the blues and browns of terrified eyes, muffled screams, tender feet, shaken dreams, and mute memories plunged into darkness, plunged into tender flesh, as the sheep found a new master and the master found a cure to lonely…
In a far away camp, not unlike this one, my loves, in a far away camp lived a hermit. He tended to his sheep with a cruel hand and kind eyes, lonely eyes. He spent his days farming and his nights weeping—so loud that the whole camp, of kids not unlike us, would shudder in their sleeps and pray they wouldn’t sleepwalk into the land of lonely, the land of the hermit, the land of the sheep. The kids made a pact that if one was to walk, the others would catch him; break his bones if they must! No blessings of companionship for the hermit, they’d rather die. At this thought, the hermit would tend to his ever-blossoming flock, his ever-shrinking thoughts of a time without lonely, with children, without pain, with love. He’d flaccidly retreat into his hut which functioned like a womb and wait for maternal hand, for paternal love to sweep him away, but the children’s laughter stung him through the night, where the air is colder, where sound travels looser and would bite him, maul him, exacerbate frozen wounds now open, still tender.
The hermit on one of these unjust nights, not unlike this one, crawled out of his bed and slithered across the floor to his moccasins. His battle shoes, his tender sheep shoes, his mourning shoes, and now his evening shoes. The shearing scythe, the mute screams of the sheep, the dried blood, the moist memories. He made his way stealthily into the camp. Not a sound, nary a whisper as he went on through the ground. He knew where the children played, he knew where the empty echoes traveled to his cottage in the night, where the caressed his infliction, where they dug nails in his stigma. The smell of a fire, not unlike this one, the sight of flames, the sound of children, evil specters all around, gathered in an embrace of what he knew not, he could not, they would not let him. The sheep knew the language of the shearing scythe and now so would the children:
As the hermit jumped athwart the fire and plunged the instrument into the leader’s heart, who had just finished his story. The screams of the children masquerading as music at a ball, a coming out party, his new birthday, their death day. The upward motion of the scythe catching moon’s reflection and hurtling the light into the blues and browns of terrified eyes, muffled screams, tender feet, shaken dreams, and mute memories plunged into darkness, plunged into tender flesh, as the sheep found a new master and the master found a cure to lonely…
posted by neilly bojangles at 3:38 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home