“There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,There is a rapture on the lonely shore,There is society, where none intrudes,By the deep sea, and music in its roar:I love not man the less, but Nature more”―Lord Byron
I give life to the dead Shape to an unborn
You are the piano by the precipice, extending from inside me to touch the barren road, carrying life and hope by the parched, naked tree, spreading its vein in anticipation to touch the sky
You are the mist cleared high-rise Now cloaked in a layer of grey Forgetting to bloom, cooing at A new growing from the old.
You are the tune I don’t play anymore Creating rhythm from your core The creases you smooth, buttons you touch Your fingers caressing the fabric of my being They are lullaby to my salt-rubbed soul
The book you gave me to fly the kites Learnt to make fire with the wind The pages which made mangata by day Know the sun scorches by night I Don’t promise you touch But my voice, my volition My willingness to wish
Wrapped in your quilt, stitched in glass mosaic, I see my smudged shadow Gathered up to a new whole The abstraction of reality The size of hollow
Solitude, You were my freedom spelled wrong We laughed at the geeky spell-bees For we made dictionaries of our own ‘Hopper and bees borrowing names Shards of my bitten soul glued and grown
Moments don’t die for they have no body Yet we stand on their graveyard and name It memory….
You are the piano by the precipice Where I stand not fall Distant mountains gleaned by mind growing wings My shoulders playing with feather-y feather glazed
You move away from vision Distance travelled through dust of dreams The truck load of gravel between us Moving through the ruins of my roots Chipping away every time to reveal A secret ledger of a demise Who will read my secret journals now….
I gift it to the passing wind You are not me anymoreI am you—Solitude.
“Let me tell you this: if you meet a loner, no matter what they tell you, it’s not because they enjoy solitude. It’s because they have tried to blend into the world before, and people continue to disappoint them.” ― Jodi Picoult, My Sister’s Keeper
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