I Have... (Prose Poem) by SupremeDreamer
Heard with crystalline clarity what the men
of many men say of solitude, bastardizing the discipline
while they proclaim it to be a poets expertise.
Let me dare to expand on that--
for now you, frankly,
are without any real choice in the matter.
To him who lives as poet, aloneness
is the rule of thumb in waking, in dreaming,
as he is eating, while loving others
that he finds worthy of loving--
When plotting revenge after having been consumed
in lust, by an atmosphere of despair spawned
by his wretched adherence to pity, turned inward,
metamorphosed into self-hatred and inner decadence--
As he observes his comrades, his enemies, his own self,
within the orbit of life around and within himself;
when forging art from thought by crafting verse,
as he strives to live by the laws of philology, to strengthen
the means by which he holds fast to his inner-most-self...
Whenever he breathes and continues still to breathe.
And when I speak of solitude, it is not necessarily
that of the physical or the mental, nor is it hermitic
in the literal sense of the term.
It is simply the acceptance and embracement of a fact:
That man is alienated and detached from the world around him
for no reason or fault of his own; that is his condition by default.
When man puts faith in, or believes to be true,
his sense of closeness to others,
he is simply escaping his circumstance via emotional delusion;
thereby effectively progressing further away from his true self--
the anima that stands resolute and omnipotent when grasped, understood,
shaped to accomplish ones chosen goals, and made efficient enough
to traverse that path.
Many fear being alone.
I have felt this fear, and still do at times.
But if one can not master solitude,
one will never know the value of company,
or understand how to attain mutual benefit from companionship.
How would one develop the patience to build up tolerance,
so objective observation may occur to formulate objective solutions?
One must be able to tolerate oneself,
observe oneself objectively,
and correct ones imperfections to succeed with others--
Such abilities are acquired, with patient persistence,
through solitude as a means to discipline the mind.
the purity of a poets craft reveals itself--
if he has patience and listens to his blood, whispering his
secrets, his truth, his wisdom and ancestral intuition.
Through ones self-perfection can one love oneself and others,
understand oneself and others, and remove detachment
with adaptation to prevent alienation.
Naturally this will only reshape ones imaginary delusion
into a delusion that somewhat reflects reality--
Though not to the imaginary degree, it is still
a reflection born of a warped and clouded mirror.
I Have the discipline, the weapon, the wisdom, of my solitude.
I Have heard what the men of many men say of being alone;
and they are right in saying that it is my expertise, as a poet.
That does not mean I am a man of foolish causes.
That does not mean that poetry is the thing of fools.
Poetry is the philosophy of warriors that seek to gain strength.
Would the men of many men have the courage, the strength,
needed to wield my sword?
The men of many men are slaves to their own manly fear.
That is why they are many, for solitary strength is beyond them.
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