Tucked not amid the groves
of tall pine
that give the sun
a hard time reaching the ground
Buried in the deep pining
that drains each day
of the sunshine
Secluded not from the world
of material and comforts
to embrace austerity
But from all
that reminds him of the dreams
that turned nightmares
within winks
Yet the visage of the one
he's trying to escape
chases him
off the flowers,
the breeze flirting unawares
Not the kind of hermit
sitting atop a bamboo-mat
with eyes closed
Meditating instead
on the sighs unheaved
counting the days
yet to breathe
Who says love can't turn you
into a hermit
while still girted by the crowd
faceless?
Where do the fish go
to drown (themselves)
when done (with life)
floating in the brine of longing?
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