STREETS OF SOLITUDE
"Do I still matter?" I lament, in quiet despair,
As kindred acquaintances vanish, dissolved in thin air.
Solitude clots the cistern, blocks my spirit's flow;
Collateral damage obscures the expansive panorama's glow.
Vision dims, and trembling hands do falter.
Crutches bear the weight of ceaseless alter.
As though a harlequin, encased in collodion's mournful woe,
A vestigial soul, defying ruin's throes.
Primitive dictums supplanted by the pragmatism of the age:
"Who cares?" imbibed in youth's cage.
The sickle and hammer, now relics of savage years,
Venomous words sealed in the vaults of my fears.
Futile is the grasp to decipher Braille's cryptic code—
The ramifications vast, yet still I brave the road.
Reclaiming the immutable verity of my existence,
Hope that today's conundrums will shape tomorrow's persistence.
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