john donne, was wrong ...

you know,
there are times...
when a man, is an island,
set alone far out to sea.

when,
he is bereft.
just a void, of sadness,
a gape, of hulking misery,
a chasm, of blankness,
in diminished and weary desolation.

with,
nothingness,
barren nakedness,
abject defeated melancholy,
as mountain range and peaks.

with,
indifference,
listless malaise,  
the emptiness of depression, fatigue and lethargy,
as his meagre crops to eat.

with,
despondency,
distress, grief, affliction, abject and ineffable, sadness
as, the rivers that run through.

with,
tribulation,
torment,
desperate lamentations,
now, covering,  
the fields with bitterness
and bereavement,
where once, the wildflowers,
used to grow.

now,
he is an island, alone.

deprived and dispossessed.
wanting and widowed.

and
with beaches, ravaged, bankrupt and heartsore
the reefs, encircle,
tho, fragmented, incomplete they are short, sharp teethed
coral.

waiting with,
patience absent,
anger rampant.. that

make,
the currents turbulent ,

those,
miserable, mournful, waters,

those,
sad, sorrowing, suffering, waves

that,
break, upon his grief-laden
shores,

tide, after, tide, after, tide.

he stands,
among the grieving.

unreachable.

an island.
a hollow man.
alone.

In a room, with the walls painted grey,
A bed, a cupboard, a table and a chair, finds their place in its emptiness.
The curtains, of a melancholic shade, drawn shut, as if the sun burns
Wrapped in solitude, my eyes can see better in this dark.
No voices, no people, only the walls to listen to,
The stories mentioned by its inhabitants that passed through.
The grimness ever spreading, reiterating a life's worth of tales
This solitary confinement is a saving grace, as the world outside fails.
And with passing time, I chose to hide
Rather than face my fears waiting outside.
Within these grey walls,
I see a chance to be at peace with myself, until one day, the heavens whisper its time to come home.

Home alone.
I bake to distract myself from thinking too much.
I'm leaning away from a *** of bubbling oil,
trying to fry cake doughnuts
for my Great Grandmother,
The great cook of the family
who loved to make them back in South Dakota
for the guests in the little hotel she owned with my great grandfather.

We didn't have enough oil.
And the misshapen rings begin to burn.
I bat them, annoyed, with a spoon.
Somewhere, in such a mundane moment,
the sadness rises, unexpected.
I think of last summer.
And dissolve into tears.
I have never felt so alone.

Her onyx eyes
burn in my mind.
Black alibis
hide hidden heat.
Forbidden nights
in darkened rooms
on darkened streets.

She stills my screams
with silken thighs
in wanton dreams
on twisted sheets.
She leaves me spent
in unknown rooms
on unknown streets.

Her hunger fills.
our emptiness.
Stiletto thrills,
crescendo beat.
Two bodies move.
In hungry rooms.
On hungry streets.

r ~ 5/11/14

To aspire and inspire, to analyse, criticise, to encourage, share, support and advise.

And those pretty little firefly's
that used to illuminate
the sockets of your eyes
must have been soaked up by your crys
must have fizzled out and died,
inside of you.
Because there's no longer
that burning light
that used to ignite a room
And put the stars to shame.
And since they died out,
you haven't been the same.

And honey, i can try to ignite them again,
With all i have,
But I've done all i can do
darling the match lies in you.