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.