Take heed dear Reader,
                                        listen wise Hearer:

                    At nightfall, after a day’s life has been
               extinguished, sacrificed in the hope for
          another tomorrow, far from the mean
     temple of the world, in a secluded
wood beyond the village’s edge, where cold
     solitude burrows, where two old hermits
          live unknown to one another, in their
               separate caves, each call out the same thing,
                    to the sleeping world in the glow below,

                    ‘I have the iron gall to ink what no
               others will, spilling thoughts that make liars
          crawl…’ threatening sun worshippers who fell
     before seeing dawn with calls to repent,
Jezrahiah and Bartholomew tongue
     the sizzling electric bulb of the lost
          horizon, vapour up late, filling in
               for truant heaven, writing upon ears
                    of men four villanelles, telling these tales:

                                        i. Prologue

‘Perhaps I will grow sane in my old age,’
     goes the hermit’s adage, so they say, wise
     men worried it will matter, what they make

when fury hits, filled with promises laid
     on creatures like fame’s kisses, a disguise,
     nothing more than clay that survives time’s flame,

light drawing them out from their forest cage
     oftener of late, more than that sunrise,
     men worried it will matter, what they make

of solitude proves it cannot replace
     the world’s warmth when what they run from looks like
     nothing more than clay that survives time’s flame,

and so I have seen them, sages awake
     before the same quiet dawn we deny,
     men worried it will matter, what they make

might somehow carry more power than weight,
     that maybe they have reason to leave like
     men worried it will matter, what they make
     nothing more than clay that survives time’s flame.

                                        ii. Jezrahiah

That sunrise approaches reeking vengeance,
     fragrant, heavy with death it balms without
     repentance, unforgiving circumstance

scented like an omen sent in moments
     we feast on, mistaking calm for a cloud
     heaven sends down when it’s something worse than

we imagined, secretly seeking us
     as we devour our own demise, and no
     repentance, unforgiving circumstance,

nor excuse can remedy existence,
     men urban and mystic condemned by what
     heaven sends down, when it’s something worse than

rain tearing through promises withered hands
     have written too late with pens inked with blood’s
     repentance, unforgiving circumstance

able to withstand such intercessions,
     since saints and angels dare not avouch
     repentance, unforgiving circumstance
     heaven sends down when it’s something worse, then…

                                        iii. Bartholomew

Nothing more than clay, flesh from mud breaking
     silence, lips inviting filth pray in full
     what my tongue denies them, truth no one thinks

will reach their dirt, my red earth deepening
     its pull of lies, pools of blood worldly fools
     spill into it, my mouth filling with sin

whenever they stir up shit and walk in
     wet sundown, secrets dripped like footprints tell
     what my tongue denies them, truth no one thinks

can touch them, but I see all, life taking
     its toll bridges consciousness, and thoughts will
     spill into it, my mouth filling with sin

in effortless gulps, their guilt forsaking
     whatever convictions they held, evil
     what my tongue denies them, truth no one thinks

outraces them, but time ruins, wasting
     no opportunity to tell people
     what my tongue denies them, truth no one thinks
     spills into it, my mouth filling with sin.

                                        iv. Epilogue

Disaster in a dewdrop sweats a sign
     two hermits find in each other, what their
     blindness cries when the sun’s eye fails to rise,

crawling to a crossroads, their paths align
     in mourning’s mist, in the midst of dark air
     poisoned by prophecy polluting skies

in which they once saw themselves fly, two lives
     entwined by witnessing a crime laid where
     blindness cries when the sun’s eye fails to rise,

words buried in a well under moonlight
     where swords felled a hero, his heart dropped there,
     poisoned by prophecy polluting skies

and minds, his own ruined before they climbed
     this hill and collided, finding the world’s
     blindness cries when the sun’s eye fails to rise,

just as theirs does, the sight of themselves bright
     enough to lift the curse above the dark
     blindness cries when the sun’s eye fails to rise,
     poisoned by prophecy polluting skies.