At last, in the mute of twilight hums
I am possessed with silence shaven,
whiteness of peace touches the breath
melting the morsels of earth’s flesh
from soiled, weary shirts: my unzipped body
dehydrated from needles of toil, soil, boil.
Dear time, be my friend in these hours;
the linens of cells are bathed in morning’s sweat
and raging howls of a day ache for an ounce
honeyed by the balm of a tearing mind...
along blades of sky coasting, faint light
brushes my dreary lips cradled
on a nest like tattered notes unsung.
At last, losing the self to the din
of night half-dark half-light, I cling
to the lingering octave of solitude;
the oneness with my crawling skin
as I release all the pining from the womb,
that in stillness, I taste fresh pulp and wine.
scott thirtyseven's Solitude Contest