Where there are fields of corn and wheat
and where the river whistles down the spine of the land,
loneliness waits, frigid and limp,
hovering with harmony as he parts the sea of grass.
He nervously grips the pole of an umbrella,
dodging the sun rays,
and shuffling through the postcards in his pockets.

He’s a quite spector.

On board with an unlikely train
of foul, bitter, and loss.
lumped together with
the unpleasant, unfavorable, and alike.
And there he travels,
sipping at tea, and eyeing biscuits.
waiting to fill another field.

Loneliness, who or what is like you?
What goals can you obtain for us?
Why must you travel?
Where is your heart?
Is it there?
Is it beating?
Can you condition mine?

Where there are fields,
just beyond my back door,
cling like a scarecrow no more.
Come inside and get warm,
let’s talk,
but eventually, Loneliness,
I know you must leave.