The Hermit

I am the Hermit, the monk, who chants of Solitude.
I am that old toy, that used shoe, damned on a dust-filled shelf.
If no one should long to reap my Fortitude,
Then I shall commit my mind, my soul, my wisdom, to myself.

For her, For Her

Dear Rowy, Because you are inherently blurrrr, I figured I should expressively say this is for you. With all due respects, May She Rest Eternally.

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As the snow steadily falls off the winter sky,
That which casts all her mind in ghastly white.
Should she shed a tear or wail a cry,
There’s no hindering Her ebbing light.

As certain as the Larks fly south,
As deafening as when lightning cracks,
As dire a place like Cerberus’ mouth;
Is as evident the love she now lacks.

Earthly though that which she is deprived,
Since Her vigor ceased but Her soul survived,
In bodily death doth her kindred part,
Worry not dear friend, for She lives on- in your Heart.