The Other World

Season after season brings not much change, As I find myself entrapped within the same odds, And find life rather dry, and those around still strange; Still I’m lonely at heart, and inconsolable in the soul. The few things I held dear in my youth, Have taken a flight outta the windows of life And left open wounds that no balm can soothe, And vaulting voids no filler can fill. I have lost much of my juvenile taste for life, And I’m left to merely get along day after day, Still eagerly willing to see what strife Awaits incurable deep thinkers such as Willy and I. I once was honest in turning away the society of friends Though they called me a recluse and manifold such, But now when I fake to be affable my heart tends To loathe the thinning thoughts of otherwise innocent men. I always feel myself a stranger in the world, Yearning for a more sublime planet and not earth, Where the wings of mercy are ever unfurled; Where poetry is yet unwritten, and fine songs are still unsung.