The Hermit

Into a carved stony dome
like a smirky evilish gnome
lo! the lonely man bends down
dressed in his frayed gown
over bookwormed scrolls
before which no other bows,
soaking up his mysteries,
gloating in each word he sees,
with veil’d eyes ajar by nights,
no more light than candlelight,
waxing moon yearning delight,
and a grim aloof black might,
which raises him beyond the stars
from his dwelling’s rusty bars
to salaam to forgotten gods,
supernal gods to whom he nods
in a perennial prostration
of one soul’s lonely damnation
in quest of whatever mind
kinder-faced than mankind.

Therein he is the lone master
of feelings turn’d alabaster
by aeons of mournful delving
into cryptic scrolls unending,
which reveal all the unseen
except nature in human being.