Poet Hidden Poem by Carolyn Brunelle

No awards or accolades
no recognition or ticker parades;
no one cares
about a hermit's demise,
his work in secret holds little surprise.

Yet work he does
to empty it all
from corners deep within,
from attic places and webbed crawl spaces,
tornadoes that reap the wind.

It all rips through his soul
in a stream of words so that
night becomes curse, sharp as sword.
Call they do; call by name,
the tortures of a soul
that have no desire
for the light of fame.

Worlds crash together
when the voices come to call;
deep are the caverns behind the walls
he built for himself through the years,
built by a soul yearning to be free
from all the things he fears
and cannot see.