The soliloquies
born of tears,
spoke of Loneliness.
The Plays the Thing.
The Long and Winding Road.
Hamlet was not crazy,
as some think,
he was alone.
Lady Macbeth scraped blood
from her hands in a
castle of lonely rooms.
McCullers loneliness
was a companion.
Teasdale wrote of the sea's
lonely foam.
Lear, alone, held Cordelia
to the
cold and empty sky.
I know Alone. It is a wind
just past my skin. Your hand
on my face is a reflection. My
skin is uninterrupted by the
conversation of your fingers.
Alone is the road
we travel.
Evermore.
Caroline Shank
8.16.2022
Aug 17, 2022
Aug 17, 2022 at 9:04 PM UTC
The soliloquies
born of tears,
spoke of Loneliness.
The Plays the Thing.
The Long and Winding Road.
Hamlet was not crazy,
as some think,
he was alone.
Lady Macbeth scraped blood
from her hands in a
castle of lonely rooms.
McCullers loneliness
was a companion.
Teasdale wrote of the sea's
lonely foam.
Lear, alone, held Cordelia
to the
cold and empty sky.
I know Alone. It is a wind
just past my skin. Your hand
on my face is a reflection. My
skin is uninterrupted by the
conversation of your fingers.
Alone is the road
we travel.
Evermore.
Caroline Shank
8.16.2022
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