Poem: "The Hermit on the Hill"

lizamanynames

janetmiles

It’s the kind of job where,
if you do it right,
you put yourself out of work.

Once it’s done, though –
after the multiverse has been saved
and the nexus lies quiet as a snowy field –
what do you then?

Your eyes have grown too wise
to see things simply;
reality is forever fractured
into a thousand fractal paths.
What does it matter if all of them are bright?

You could have any job you wanted, but
there is no job you could take
in which your mellifluous vision
would not give you some unfair advantage.
So you walk away. You stop looking.
What else could you do?

The desert is still. The desert is peaceful.
It is not a place plagued by many choices.
Few will ever notice the light of your lantern on the hill.
When they come to you, the adolescent saints
and the tentative messiahs, you will show them what lies
in wait. You will give them new eyes to see men’s souls.
And you will not watch them walk back down the hill.