The Poet’s Solitude


Solitude whispers a deep and silent story
From the shadowy depths of the heart’s abyss
Where the pitiful quest for either fame or glory
Withers upon the lips like a poisoned kiss

From the shadowy depths of the heart’s abyss
Poet and his quill spin their twisted verse
Words whose understanding and mark are missed
Whose meaning is lost, ne’er to be conversed

Poet and his quill spin their twisted verse
Word trail bleeds upon an empty page
The song of the muse like a dying star burst
Showering phrases full of grief and rage

Word trail bleeds upon an empty page
Passions quenched before a smoldering fire
Poem now dances upon an hollow stage
Then the poet tosses it upon the funeral pyre



Back then, before
The moon sunk low and lower still
Pushed down by the foggy fingers
Of morning’s misty gray light
The city slept its restless sleep
Caressed by the icy winds of winter,
Wrapped in the shadowed shroud
Of indifference and indignation

Existing here in my cobwebbed corner
Alone among the distant many,
Isolated and detached from life
The door to my heart soundly latched
Behind the four walls of my existence
Love, Hope, Joy, and Promise
Cracked and crumbling into dust
Beneath my naked and bruised feet.

Laying there listless but listening still
To the hustle and bustle outside
Buzzing like bees, swarming in my head
I cried out, but none heard or came
I lifted my eyes toward the rising sun
But they were burned and blinded
By the intense vision of my failure
My tears salting my solitude
Nothingness replacing the light
Resignation, this cowards flight

I swore and cursed the fates
but in the end, I had to let go


All I wanted in life was someone to love. Solitude
Was my only friend and though we had become
Comfortable with one another, it was not enough.
I just wanted someone to dream with, to share with,
To grow with, to sleep with. What was left of my
Humanity was screaming for the touch of another.
And then you came.
I had no idea how to dream, what to share, how to
Grow; only sleep I knew well. Why did I yearn so for
Love when I had no capacity to love fully in return? Oh, I do
Love you, but it has become apparent that what I want
And what I am capable of are foreign entities. You love me, and in
Truth, though my tenderness is guarded and my
Expressions flat, you never ask for more. Is this love?
Accepting that to love, you may not receive as much in return?
How sad.
Yet, to be true, not as sad as solitude.