Solace in Solus

Unknown.jpegSolace in Solus

I feel as though there’s a lack of meaning,

like everyone’s purpose, is slowly weaning

There are no more critical or deep discussions,

only pervasively irrational concussions,

such that we no longer think,

but are at the brink

of a time when there’s no understanding

of today where we’re standing;

yet this would be understating

the problem I face to-day,

namely that we state we are under,

in order to be “out of the way,”

whereover we hold no sway—

Yes, our freedom is starting to decay,

like a slowly wilting bouquet,

whose flowers are losing their petals:

In our sorrow we settle;

almost filled to the brim,

we are burning kettles,

waiting to scream

We peddle away our medals

so our hearts are made of metal,

cold, heavy, opaque, and glittery

We were made for conductivity

yet we never engage each other,

with our designed serenity

Rather, we parade around in pitiful misery,

minds and heads alike caught in the snow,

busily blizzardy, deep

Frozen in place, our discomfort discreet,

conceding our conceited conceits,

we’re always trying to compete

who can be least complete,

only for it to repeat,

‘till our pain’s replete

a permanent scar, a receipt,

brought forth from our deceit

Passive and restrained to our seats,

it’s like we’re buried up to our chests in concrete,

stuck, unable to move,

not enough medicine or pills to soothe,

the neverending ache,

which plagues our hearts

for emptiness’ sake—

But one of these days,

each of us shall break

If, for once, we could look inside,

would then our pride subside?

If, for once, we could reflect,

would we be able to detect

our inner defects

or that our empty holes are sewn?

Alas! What shall stop us,

from this last, fatal moan?

Lo, if only we could all,

learn to be alone.

solitude.jpg

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