Home Of Solitude Poem by Johnny Psalm

The wood is quite except rustling and rasping
Of unknown feet trampling earthward dry leaves.
No, no, no, no, the visitors are parting,
From the market, earthward, to home beneath.

Alone in twilight, watching mercurial images
Of dry trees and rotten weeds in silent solomnet
Upon the black earth of flesh to wild berries,
Lake weeds from tattered laborers out of flesh.

I mourned the wood not for its solitude,
But the chapel of rest filled with hollow men
In private refuge of Platonic ends of war;
I would give you this not to grieve when I'm gone.