reports some distant, tolling bell,
and millions sleep, and feel secure,
that all their problems have a cure.
And all their daily chores are done,
and so they dream of things to come.
When morning comes, they’ll lift their eyes,
and once again, they’ll slowly rise.
But sitting troubled in my room,
the world seems pared, to ponderous gloom.
No eye, nor ear have I to share,
for want of any soul to care,
in banishment, I’ve sent my face,
from all the others of my race,
in tangled solitude, I abide,
exaggerated by my pride,
for lack of touch, for want of kiss am I,
of all that night have been,I feel,
and all my wounds, forbid to heal…
- Goodbye. (anewskew.wordpress.com)