There is a distinct form of tragedy
Within freedom
A certain breed of loneliness
That is only felt as an echo
One could sail alone with the wind
For an indefinite time
Without noticing it
And every gentle touch
Or grasp with lustful hands
Is felt as just a whisper
Without the satisfaction
Of a scream
One could endure earth shaking loads of
Pure, unadulterated thunder
And feel nothing at all
And the labyrinth is,
Is this numbness –
This unpiercable veil of anesthesia –
Is it strength,
Or weakness?