Hermit's Guide to Healing

Venus sent reversed stars
by doves
and the spinose stems
of blood orange
roses, chosen
as messengers.

Passengers of
dusts carried by whims
and the dimmings
of musings;
the disconnection

alluding to
an infection of
self-polluting doubt,
as you grasp about
your throat
for clean air.
The bare

minimum,
a byzantinium
of tortuous knots
you have tied
yourselves into;
the resin

of your entities
sandalwood
and myrrh,
like ancient trees
that birthed deities
and saplings
without care.

You stare into them,
waiting,
their sproutings
stealing patience
as your complacencies
create voids
you use as shelter.

You felt her
leave; the
ambiguity of
the labyrinth left
trailess and lacking,
Death cackling
for you; an afterthought.

But you are a fool
and you have fought
tirelessly,
your cypresses
merely sleeping
until a noon
slits open the tresses
of your beings;

the reelings
of the great marooned.
A discipline
pruned for fruitfulness
and growth,
its timely bounty slow
and serpentine,
as you find

the path
you choose to go.