By Micah Hershberger
Isolation drips down summers and winters that intermingle in a sense
of mundanity. It can not be looked past or even seen as avoidable.
Persistently, I become better acquainted with silence
than with the reality of an unseen timetable.
Uncontrollable, undeniable, and even a peculiar realm;
it trifles the bounds of absurdity to the point of break
like that of the parlous plundering ship of youth with a helm
that but no one would be so willing to fortake.
Exclusion, lost to the outside world and its inability to commit
to the expenditure of incremental increases in its size,
but yet it’s willing to commission the bearings of a life, as though a hermit
sent wandering in the atrocity of wallowing until the day he dies.
So here alas, I shall sincerely stand in residual wait
for the dwelling of a most profound and most fulfilling state.