Alone

Yesterday,
Words flowed
And fell
Upon the page like a late
Spring snow,
Covering
Still green trees
Breaking branches,
Downing power lines.

And it was wet and good
And I was covered
In it’s virginity
And innocence.

I heard a child’s laughter
As he danced down the street
Commanding snowballs
To toss at friends
That he would meet;
I walked alone.

Today
The sun does shine
A cloudy gray,
Replaced by golden ray
On a fresh spring day,
And the streets are mush
As chainsaws hum
And lines are stretched
To maintain a society
Run on false power.

And I walk alone.

I arrive at my destination,
Nowhere,
But then,
From nowhere did I come
And so nowhere shall I be
In this eternity
Of captured bliss
Of which I don’t understand,
But,
I know as

I walk alone.

I enter the door to nowhere
To find a room of nothingness,
But then,
I expect nothing more,
Just the distant roar
Of yet another war.

And I sit alone.

I put pen to paper,
It’s whiteness blinds my eye
So I
Spill the bottle of ink
But it flows red
And I cry
And wonder why
As I

Sit alone.

The phone?
Silent still
Silent now,
Silent always
Yet,
I understand.

For I live alone.

One gets used to the noise and din
Of life,
The unwatched television
Is some measure of comfort
And company when I find none,

As I live alone.

I play some songs
And hum along,
Yet tunes today
Are hard to play
For melodies say
It was a better day
When love could stay

And I was not alone.

It seems to be
A misconception I see
That poets must suffer
In order to write.
I beg to differ
For,
If this were true
I could pen thoughts
Worthwhile
And make men smile
Of my brilliance
When they read that which I write
That never will be read.

For I write alone.

To me
As I see,
A poet could paint
A canvas of beauty
With the laughter of words
That speak of beauty-
Small children,
Babbling brooks,
Sunrise,
Sunset,
Mountain peaks,
Running creeks
Trough meadows green
Where flowers bloom
In early June
And deer and rabbits play;
And I,
I could stay
Within the realm of a sunny world
Filled with love and beauty
That is there
For those that see
As should we,
But then,
I have the time

As I look alone.

But the sights I see,
The thoughts I think,
Those that make me
What I am
Do not last
Any longer than fresh cut flowers
In a antique vase
As I too place
A veil within my mind
That none may penetrate
And am cursed to roam

For I am always alone.