Loneliness isn't the feeling
of being empty.

It is the ache
that follows
when you try to fill
a broken vessel.

The numbness
of watching yourself
seep through the cracks,
reaching for something
that's long since
slipped away.

a small window
with squeaky clean panes
of glass

pulls in raw sunlight

into a small room
with a slatted wooden floor

where I sit in the corner
on a hardbacked chair

it scrubs and scours
my face

I'm constantly told
not to be so rough on myself

but there are a few things in life
I  can no longer ignore

one being that only the ruthless
survive

Whit Howland © 2020

A million snowflakes submerge,
                             a blanket of life.
Now static,
      a grave of white
     hides its crime.
Until the forgotten are found, buried once again
in unmarked tombs of silence.
          Once again forgotten in a blanket of earth.