The Way Back

There are perils on this path,
dangerous distractions —
dark demons of desire
and addiction —
determined to deter
me from my destination.

Cavernous openings inviting
exploration,
narrow alleys, sinister and close,
offering false absolution.

Ghostly reminders of missteps
and mistakes
blocking the way.

The searchers find me —
as they typically do —
in a dim room away from
the main ways,
cuffs and chains confining
me to a chair,
wicked pen being fed
by my veins,
remnants of paper covering
every slimy surface.

Such is the journey
and the fall
when I am called too early
from the exile
of my mind.

Darkness

Darkness (Photo credit: sigma.)

For the dVerse Poets ‘exile’ prompt.

Shared at the Imaginary Garden.

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25 Comments

Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts

25 responses to “The Way Back

  1. This is dark and somewhat mysterious too. I believe we can exile ourselves in our minds too.
    Very deep and image filled.

  2. i think when we write poetry we are ‘exiled’ somewhat; but it is an exile by choice, one which we sometimes do not want to be forced out of. This is the message I got from your poem. Don’t know if I interpreted correctly.

  3. ha…very vivid and intense…i think we at times exile ourselves….perhaps int he watcher role…i know i can easily….and our blood drained for the page, can relate to that…leave mine on the page daily…smiles….

  4. k~

    Sometimes you claw and clench at the soul of your readers… this is one of those times.

  5. Yes – that wrenching and the clawing back is hard and you’ve made it palpable. (One question = I think at the end you may mean “too” early. I’m sorry – I can’t banish my inner proofreader but I know I’m thankful for someone letting me know little glitches.)

    Cool poem. k.

  6. hedgewitch

    It certainly is true the terrors in that little dark room called the mind are the most frightening of all, and the mental addictions as devastating as the physical–I only wish the pen would cuff me and keep me focused that completely, most times, though. Great work with the metaphor, Mark.

  7. Pingback: Into the Light | Awakened Words

  8. A common theme in many of the “exile” poems today; exiled to the rooms of our minds. Awesome write, Mark!

  9. But there are times when the exile of my mind is where I want to stay. It’s then that ideas are so much easier to play with than reality. I can’t help thinking that many of us poets who revel in that sacred space.

  10. you have been looking through my office window! I can hide myself in there with the desire to write so strong pen to paper or keyboard and the mind just stops. beautifully written.

  11. Dark and messy…yes, it gets that way when one is pulled form this place of deep muse immersion. Nicely written, Mark!!

  12. i much like the way how you write your way out of the exile…some things need time and lots of blood, left on the page..

  13. Tino

    Dark and brooding, just like the place where I can hide and make some sense out of the nonsensical.

  14. Ohhhh. This is dark, and deep. Well done.

  15. Very cool writing. Intriguing outlook, the exile being within one’s own mind. The last stanza is especially wonderful.

  16. exquisite alliterative wordplay.

  17. How Poe-ish! In this beautifully alliterated and imaged poem, I am even more susceptible to the spirit of dark romanticism, because from this poet comes truth. It’s been hard to have company this weekend, and yet I know everything will be much better later because she is making me vacation now.

  18. Those rooms in our minds are intense like this. Wow! So well written…great stuff Mark.

  19. love the forcefulness of the alliterative opening–and sometimes it would be nice not to be found.

  20. yeah, i like this one, especially how it sounds with the slant-rhyming and alliteration and whatnot. very nice.

  21. Yup been there many a time

  22. You carried us into the den of the addict with veracity and skill. Terrific write!

    http://www.kimnelsonwrites.com/2012/06/18/tucson-summer/

  23. …oooo…great photograph! But I’m afraid….!

Some of what I write is true, some is fiction; most is merely possibility.

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