Writing Recluse Poem by RoseAnn V. Shawiak

Solitude penetrating every fiber of being, rearranging the
molecules and particles of serenity's limits.

Sated by an inner power, questioned on deadened qualifications,
fought on neutral ground, fallibility of legendary friendship
has no end.

Recreating boundaries placed haphazardly through years of
abuse is difficult, but coming through it all and becoming a
writing recluse.

Alone in a solitary space, finding endless stays of execution
trifling with past memories.

Quantumly vacating the storehouse of knowledge, in search
instead, of the genius of creativity which has forged itself
a spot in infinity.

Quaking ever so slightly, taking the guard's post of time into
your own hands, letting no one dictate on matters of single
importance, traveling the longest, loneliest pathways to the
peace desired very much interiorly.

Quickened pace, hurt rapidly multiplying it's beat of life,
surging forth from within, aorticly potentiating the demise
of an attack.

Left alone, a single file of cells, arranged in a battered
line, fighting to get by.

Atmosphere of living died a long time ago, called survival or
existing, if you wish.

Likened to an antagonistic brawl, stranglehold of dedication
is responsible no more.

Where the fifes are blowing, the drummer is no more, faulty
miscalculations have been sent unsung, strumming tunes on
invisible banjos.

Attuned to death, forsaken by the living of all beings,
sanctimonious replies beget the total failure of an inner
being.

Stepping on the stairwell of the final trip to hell, slowly
walking down into the bowels of fire and brimstone, vacated
by the premise of life.