We all live in a kind of exile
Searching my heart for
It’s true sorrow, I found
So many people I easily enjoyed

Trusting as I am of their goodness
I had not assumed the opposite
Could be true, and thus
I lived a more lonely life

My introverted years
Becoming weary of words
Weary of people, what is left?
Always, I climbed the wave

Of sunscarf at morning
And shook my shoes of sand
At night, but I am caught
Beneath great buildings

And a world that doesn’t care
I can feel its weight bearing
Down on me, confused with
So many lights, all capitalism

All consumerism, nowhere
The human heart, I am
Too long away from water
Too sparely close to green

Loved by too few members
Of my own people, where are they?
When all the beauty I know
Of this world, can only stiffen
For the tragic tribe of Autumn.