The Folly of Solitude

The  Folly of  Solitude

 

The sky has taken me for granted.

It doesn't wear its grey cassock

I so much wanted it to wear.

It's too hot to listen to the silence.

As evening approaches,

I stay back, pulsating.

My hands are sweaty.

The corillons peal me out of life. I bleed!

The sky is red madder now,

We connect.

The soft light is confused as darkness presses in.

It is woody, it is still. I hate woody machinery.

The woodwork in public buses rub against each other

In motion, and make sounds like obscene mice.

I cringe.

There's nowhere to be one with solitude.