Lonely
Things look differently in hindsight
Objects, ideas, and people can take on a life of their own
What once existed serenely now rears up on its scaly haunches
Breathing a most fowl and unpleasant exhalation
An all-encompassing shroud
Like an impenetrable fortress of fog
Draping the countryside of one’s grey matter in an even duller demure
The palate, once a tapestry of color now left drab and undone
Like a piece of paint peeled back to revel the undisguised underbelly
Traces of things left to yesteryear—no hope of return
From the lifeless clutches that are the all-too apparent circumstances
Flesh gone cold from inactivity and the onset of life’s winter season
Stripped bare of all life, color and action
The longing that awaits one upon this arrival is quite unbearable
The kind that weighs you down, like an anchor
With waves a ’crashing, tearing at the very life line
Memories wash ashore with debris
Leaving cracked fragments of one’s life among the remains
Replete with the cavernous hollows that is solitude
One grasps at swirling phantoms in the night, always a step behind
Left with nothing but the painful yearning for something to fill the ever growing void
The kind of mass that devours all things that radiate
Nothing escapes its covetous glance
Like a ravenous galactic black hole
Everything is lost in its path
Growing like the sole vine in a once bustling building
Slowly ensnaring, brick by brick, the very foundations
Entangled in the rubble of rotted wood and concrete
Nonchalantly passing by unassuming photographs
Hazy memories now long forgotten
Remnants are all that remain
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