This poem keeps me lonely
Jealous of what comforts
I
Might derive from less lofty matters.
It entices me to the end of shores
To the back of caves, to Attic rooms.
Then casts me out for
Failing to scribe
and causes
The lungs to intonate and rattle
with alien souls
All in comfort groups
boasting of their bonds and
yet my envy lacks the drive
to even dream
That one day
I could be the same.
Wasted breath -
was it for
The beauty that I came here
Or was it just to stare
unashamedly into my own eyes
and say
"what's new?"
1 comment:
This needs illustrating
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