This poem is about a mentality and a way of life. It was inspired by a book I read, and its author.
Ascetic
The ascetic dwelt in this cold chamber,
Contemplating men who strayed from nature.
The climate often drove him to illness;
With Dionysian scorn, he would defer
The bitter retreat from the elements:
Deep into reflection, he would recess,
Where, blindly navigating the human
Psychology, he found relief. The sense
Of sight attains a lucid clarity,
In the dark. It was seeing that drove an
Old man to make his proud and lonely cry:
“I will not go to you; you come to me.”