The engine roars, the metals gleam,
You race along the high-paved line,
To reach the summit of a dream
And claim the sky as yours and mine—
Or so you thought. The climb is steep,
The pace severe, the cold air thin,
And in the rush, you never keep
A tally of the quiet sin.
You build a tower, tall and bright,
A spire of stone against the blue,
With vaulted arches catching light,
Yet holding no one close to you.
For every friend was pushed aside,
And every hand was let go free,
To trade the warmth of love for pride
And secure a lonely victory.
At last the highway finds its end,
The final peak is brought in view;
No waiting crowd, no quiet friend,
No open arms to welcome you.
The crown is earned, the space is vast,
The wind blows sharp across the seat—
A solitary soul at last
Where no one ever cares to meet.
For status is an empty weight,
And power leaves a hollow sound,
If no warm voice can celebrate
The simple truths that you have found.
The prize was never just the height,
Nor standing on the peak alone,
But walking through the heavy night
With hearts that make the journey home.
AS I CONTINUE ON THIS TREACHEROUS ROAD, IT'S LIKE WALKING ALONE IN THE WOODS AT NIGHT WITH NO COMPASS AND NO LIGHT.
MOVING FORWARD ON THIS UNTRODDEN PATH, I CAN BARELY SEE, WITH THE MIST AND DARKNESS BLENDING TOGETHER.
THE FEAR OF THE UNKNOWN AND THE UNEXPECTED HOLDS ME CAPTIVE, KEEPING ME A PRISONER WITHIN MY OWN MIND. THE ONLY COMPANY I HAVE IS MY SHADOW, AND EVEN HE LEAVES ME AT DAWN.
WHERE DOES MY FINAL DESTINATION LIE? PAST THE HORIZON, THROUGH THE FIELDS AND VALLEYS, CROOKED ROADS AND DARK CAVES, OR IS IT PAST THE MOUNTAINS, ALONG A SMALL, NARROW PATH THAT LEADS TO A DEAD END?
MY DESTINATION IS YET TO BE KNOWN. THERE IS FAR TOO MUCH GROUND TO COVER AND NEVER ENOUGH TIME. TOO MUCH TO LEARN, TOO MUCH TO EXPLORE, TOO MUCH LIFE LEFT TO LIVE.
THE ROAD LESS TRAVELED IS ALWAYS THE ROUGHEST TO TAKE. AS A SOLITARY SOUL, I LOOK FORWARD TO FACING NEW CHALLENGES, CULTIVATING LOVE WHERE PAIN RESIDES, AND OFFERING FORGIVENESS WHERE SCARS AND WOUNDS ARE STILL HEALING.
A solitary soul, I waste my life.
Depressed, and bitter, I rage in this line
and rhyme's unquiet measure—O, my strife!
like steak knives that carve up a dead bovine,
why sacrifice my lunatic, crazed soul!?
Why crucify, why vilify, my name?
To be a loathsome bug trapped in a bowl,
is untold disgrace and great, endless shame.
But still, I persevere another day;
and seek comfort in scribbled, rhythmic words,
that ring like cathedral bells on Sunday,
before the pious assemble in herds.
Though in church no more where sinners are, alone
I worship God with hymns of better tone.
Amidst the screaming lull,
Just like a pause in time,
Where everything moved but HIM
And somehow, my world aligned.
A hallway.
A raindrop.
A stare from an inch away.
He was always "just there"
On the most ordinary day.
A nerd, a solitary soul,
yet enough to set my heart’s petals unfolding.
"Just a coincidence" - I etched myself,
Knowing well... it was not.
So if anyone asks,
I'll stay serene amidst sparks,
"Oh, it's nothing."
But the universe knows -
He was my favorite coincidence.
Eyeing forward the sky
Eclectic, unending, space fly
Moon reflecting, antennae, sky-high
Hitherto' I yield, ensemble quietness
Silent my eyes, motionless
Peaceful musings in my mind bless
It quiets me
A place, I let no other enter free
Not a solitary soul to be
My place. My space
My quietness, embrace
It is there inside, I laze
To call upon when
I wake from blurring dream zen
In midnight room den
Resembling to find serenity
Sense of harmony
My peace and tranquility
In lonesome bouquet laced with lilt of love
lies embedded the frozen fragrance
of remote reminiscence,
enticing the defrosted solitary soul
to reflect someday the sunshine
in faded memory motif folded in warm embrace.
Hermit
self-assured
solitary soul
longing eyes
staring far
peering down his inner self
forgetting himself.
In the frozen air and frost gripping the malachite meadow
within the mystique mask of the arctic dawn,
defoliated lone tree wrapped by dismal melancholy,
stands static as shadowless sentinel of dormant dreams.
From the melted chilling clasp of the glacial desire I rise,
the heartening rhythm of the serenading heart I hear,
the music of love resonates with the symphony of ardor.
I glide in its cadence, soaring in the beguiling bowl of blue.
In the lonesome bouquet laced with the reverie of love
lies embedded the frozen fragrance of remote reminiscence,
enticing the defrosted solitary soul to reflect sunshine someday,
hold the faded lattice of mesmeric memory in warm embrace.
Unquenching thirst in scorching sands
With doleful steps as if once banned,
From mother home, lost paradise
While wandering wayward days and nights.
As scorpions sting and vipers’ hiss
With broken bones and loneliness,
Filled with weeping, creeping, seeking
More, crawling ‘long the desert floor.
While raining rockets fill the skies
Smoke and ashes blind the eyes,
Hoping all the hellishness will end
Praying silently to ascend.
As dreams no longer ease the mind
And all the saints you once thought kind,
Have left you here to drift, bereft
A solitary soul, misfit.
In search of that lost pot of gold
The one they say is Mighty old,
And glistens with the light of love
Ubiquitous mystery, soaring dove.
Still stumbling, tumbling, moving on
Faith shattered, battered, nearly gone,
Yet mercifully a dimly lit discerning,
Incessant, quiescent,
Great yearning.
© Terrell Martin, 02/10/2025
I poison myself to endure the torments of my clairvoyant mind,
A journey littered with catastrophes and irreversible scars.
I chase nightmares I will find in hell,
My face drowned in the fleeting vanities humanity sanctifies.
I am in no rush to honor my appointment with the reaper,
Like a terminally ill patient who still dares to dream.
I am trapped in an asylum where appearances and masks
Are the mirrors of madness.
I burn my neurons with cannabis
To find beauty in the ugliness of my surroundings.
My indelible scars are searing reminders of my insignificance.
I have tamed the violence of silence
To anesthetize my demonic urges.
I trust not in human frailty,
Like a bipolar paranoiac.
The darkness of the furnaces of the bearer of light
Shines deep in my eyes.
I am a solitary soul, persecuted
By its demons and ghosts.
The melancholy of my heart has chained
My mind to the depths of bitterness.
My life on Earth has been infernal torture
Since the day I let out my first cry.
I am compelled to sow the seeds of chaos
In this dimension, to unlock the gates of immortality.
A symphony of blasphemies, to discover every fragrance of freedom.
"Every leaf speaks bliss to me
fluttering from the autumn tree."
Quote by _Emily Bronte
I love how each majestic tree will grow,
how each season is a moment in time;
and how each grand tree- her hued colors show,
oh, sparrow's chirrup and on a branch chime.
The dappled leaves a painted veil above,
brimming with song birds singing so happy;
a solitary soul with trees I love,
gathering the gold- squirrels are snappy.
There is no gloom in the grandeur of Fall,
oh, how the honey breath just reaches out;
but there is decaying of big and small,
on the ground red, gold jewels lay about.
Trees go to sleep to wake eternally;
but they still stand on guard externally.
Swahili sighs on blue bated breath
Soothing solitary soul of black
You hold my hand and play with my hair
Keeping kente anxiety back
Your caress and kiss curl my toes
Make me dream of being your wife
But in our hearts we already know
We are one joined by the Christ
Got a sweet tooth for a taste of you
And your caramel sugar daddy ways
You do things you know I love
You give me purple praise
You still leave up the toilet seat
In many ways you are the plumber
You fix most everything
What you can’t you find the thunder
Love is bringing me what I need
And asking me what I want
It’s singing laughing sharing
hearing all day all night long
It’s letting me love you
And kiss you on your neck
It’s knowing you need me too
Being so kind as to confess
Love language can change
But love for us will not
Making love in God’s name
Is what keeps us hot.
THE SICK CHILD-EDVARD MUNCH
Ghostly downpour upon not the sick,
but the sick at heart - a child’s mother.
Bittersweet tangle of red - patient’s hair,
dresser, caretaker’s hands. Bedside
manner, sorrowful to the point of death,
but the woman is not literally dying,
her daughter is. Steadfast bravery
warm blanket hue of hunter-green,
orange and blue. The girl’s mother
already draped in a dreary raven habit.
The sick room is passionate - lucky girl
is blessed. She is not alone until
her soul departs. Her mother will live
with a solitary soul-sucking pit, deep
inside of her residual days, memories
tucked away from all her friends, for
she will dread the fire of life - the source
that lit her lamp with strawberry hair,
freckled windsong, a swinging pendulum.
The sick child, already in the light;
despair has a screaming voice,
perceived in claustrophobic space.
One is lightened by breathlessness;
the other is lightened by a broken heart.
Alone I sit and ponder on my fate,
A solitary soul in this abyss,
No friendly voice or hand to mitigate
The emptiness that fills my heart amiss.
The silence echoes loudly in my ear,
A haunting sound that chills me to the bone,
And though I try to push away the fear,
I find myself in solitude alone.
The world around me bustles with its noise,
But I am deafened by the stillness here,
And though I long for someone's loving poise,
I know that loneliness is all I'll bear.
So here I sit and wait for something new,
To fill the void and chase away the blue.
Melancholy moonbeams cascade
over a lattice of canopies
of the overhanging trees,
like millions of sparkling snakes
slithering over the surface
of the silent water of the lake.
A sense of bodeful uneasiness
flood into my solitary soul;
When love is lost
No one and nothing could hurt more,
No one and nothing pleases ever.
In how many varied places
do I profess my love?
In how many ways
do I proclaim my love?
A quivering blanket of mist
stealthily envelopes the grassy plain
drawing me into its rapture.
~03/30/22
~Contest: A Brian Strand Premier Choice.
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