this cosmic stone we live upon
many lyrics have been bred
To hyperbolize the essence
of the life inside our heads.
But of sibilant lines of poetry
I fear it must be said
That in solitude theyre written
and in lonliness theyre read.
Theres nothing quite can measure life
like living life itself;
And there is nothing much alive
in paper on the shelf.
But how much more alive am I,
a desultory man,
When reaching out for you I find
theres nothing where you stand?
With wavering hand ungathered
to a sympathetic heart;
A sharing never shared between,
this whole remains a part.
For you prefer the emptiness,
the cold, unfeeling walls
Of the prison deep inside yourself
where only misery crawls.
Without you, then, I must remain
a lonely poet still;
With tangled fingers scribbling lines
to a heart I cannot fill.