Amidst the grandeur of a curved horizon
I ascend the winding road above the ecclesial clouds of the Camaldoli Hermitage
And as the fodder of the fields scatter in my wake
The flashing shadow of that that hovers above
Traces cross the ground
Portending the rodents fate
As I spy a cranium red dot and a curved wing against the cerulean sea of infinity
The warped wooden crusi fixus on the wall reigned in on my subconscious
As white robes began sprinkling a verdant green sanctuary
The monks making their way from contemplative silent cells to the common Chapel
Where my ears attune to the pleasing Psalms and acoustic hymns of the Revered Cyprian Consiglio
The sumptuous phonics of his name
Reaffirming the purity and empathy
Echoing through the tenor of his transcendent voice
And upon my exile into the stayed silence;
In the hollowed vacuous percussion of my claustral cell
My sinful secular brain began recounting his erotic refrain
Of a bare and stunning young virgin on a moonlit eve
And her ‘Beautiful Naked Running’
Astride a white deer in the translucent meadow’s sheen
While the rapture of Cyprian’s voice bathed this beautiful scene
In the spirit of something sensuous yet serene
And in the moment that Sister Miriam's provocative prose
Fades faint to black
My lascivious mind hearkened back
To the naked visceral verse of Whitman's ‘Body Electric’
And the silhouette of an exaggerated hip and curve;
An ultra-feminine form,
Makes its way through the shadowy gray
To knock on my bedroom door
As I plead for teasing footsteps
Cross the creaking floor
For the order and rules of St. Romuald and Benedict could neither stay nor shield
The compulsions of lust and loin
As I escaped and scaled the cloister walls
And made my way through golden tinctured fields
In the place where children would no longer play
Near the gathered stacks of conical hay
Where I would have my way with her
For I was the epitome of Hesse's impetuous monk
The hedonistic Goldmund
And even the Revered Cyprian Consiglio
A beautifully pure theologian
Could not save me
For in the end
He was only akin
To Hesse’s Narcissus