TWENTY-ONE TIMES AROUND A MOON AND STILL SAD

 TWENTY-ONE TIMES AROUND A MOON AND STILL SAD

All of my faculties are confused; scrambled, I am not myself, lost the magic in my step. What weighted this shadow has, how heavy darkness is when light shows no promise.

 I’ve chosen a cave as my home; isolated, I chose to leave humanity behind. My magic has run out, rationality unfit, now I will become a hermit. I push my knees into my chest, fold my arms behind my neck, and mourn the cave I press myself into. I am too big for this cave, my knees push into my chin, and discomfort becomes all too common. 

So, this is twenty-one? My twenty-first solar-return bittersweet; I, a moon without a sun; now unhinged I fly —unbalanced, inhuman and archaic. There is no one to save me.

Nature is like fairy land, a thick dark forest: a place to wallow, lose myself in the depths of something empty—I mourn my twenty-first solar-return. I have yet to dance; yet to sing, yet to make sense of a magicless life. This life is unnatural, the wind’s song is too cheerful, will I pray this cave into a castle ? 

My brain, such a ruinous creature; my brain, a being with a life of its own—my body: without fortune, unfit to be flesh, stripped of its worth, and made into a man. I am not myself.

I’ve become a gothic hermit, a man of hexes, a man of hollowed screeches, a man without a song to dance. And I stand, my faculties confused, the light hurts my eyes, the sun is too loud; and vomit pulls me down like gravity. This cave, a castle if I make myself small enough.