Alone

He spends his days in stir from seat to seat,
As if the change in space could bring about
The end of isolation more discreet
Than vacant words from friends that make him doubt
That he is even cared for here at all.
Back when the subtle seed of solitude
Was sown, he took up pens with which to scrawl
A hurried note, neglecting to include
The other common side of love that leaves
The gallant lost and strewn amongst the thieves.

And after time the seed begins to grow,
Whilst underneath his skin he feels a change
That bullies him until he must bestow
More hope into illusions of estranged
Ideals that are little more than templates.
He spends more time with friends but more alone;
There’s nothing holy left to desecrate
That hasn’t suffered, no one to atone
For loneliness he dutifully obtained
Without intention, nothing yet explained.

There’s nothing more he’d like than absolution:
Abandon from the ceiling of restraint,
Away from solitary persecution
And into graciousness without complaint.
If only they were there to hear him speak.
Observing couples sharing in their lies,
He glances jealously at each unique
Brand imitation, eager to disguise
The unavoidable conspiracy:
This tired, feeble, lonely man is me.