A Poem (?), imperfect (.)

Something new I wrote, inspired by Virgina Woolf's writing

There it is again, that impalpable feeling of isolation, descending from the depths of the sky like ashen snow, a thin layer of gray dust settling (soft, silent) upon the winding streets and the bare branches of a wrinkled tree.
There it stands again, the looming tree of loneliness that casts impressive shadows of its own, shadows that enlarge themselves with the passing of time to accommodate for lonelier souls in search of shelter. And in the shade of the tree's branches, these souls prance about incessantly, some talking of their favorite presidential candidate, others of what to wear to their sister's wedding; some arguing over the state of the art, others speaking only of things that fall on deaf ears. Nevertheless they talk, even if their words remain in a state of everlasting stillness - intact , stagnant, and heavy.
There it stands again, that tree, upright and unsure, branches heavy and intwined, some pointing to the sapphire dome above and others to directions one cannot follow, to mountains ranging far beyond what the naked eye can see.
And the branches are bare no longer. Now they are heavy with the fruit of our patience, of us who are caught in a perpetual state of weightless disarray, awaiting something to bloom in the darkness of our minds. We too must live and die alone as we try to pass the years by indulging in conversations about theatre, fashion, death of a family member, presidents, wars, what to eat today, what to buy tomorrow, and the shadow grows bigger and bigger until it encompasses the whole plane, and although its boundaries soon become invisible to us, our minds must never cease conversing lest the shadow stops growing.
There it is again, that ghastly silence that slithers and coils itself around our toes, my toes, and from a far corner of the shadow, the end of which now lies in uncharted realms, a figure approaches, all draped in gray and white, and when it gets close enough I can see that it is female figure, faceless. She shakes her head and says,
- You made it about yourself again, didn't you?
and there it goes again, that sculpturesque figurine, disappears, (poof!) and flies into the sapphire dome above, or to the mountain range that lingers upon the horizon's rim. And then I look around and see them, the vague figures of before standing in the shadow that has now taken over the entire realm, my realm.
Suddenly, a few paces away from where I stand, in a patch of checkered light, a pigeon can be seen circling around the edges of that pool in search of something, anything, to hold in between his beaks. Round and round he goes but finds nothing, yet no matter how much time passes in searching, he refuses to step into the shadow lands, beneath the cobwebbed roof of the old tree.
In a sudden flash the pigeon then stops mid-motion, as if stopped by the ringing of distant bells, the chime of which gets buried beneath the weight of our coarse conversations. And in response to that chime the pigeon flies away, and all the noise and commotion of before comes to a standstill and, in a moment of consensual compassion, the figures beneath the tree come together, mingle and intwine like the branches that gives them shelter. They stand in awe and marvel at the sight of the pigeon flying away, but what they see now is only a dot, getting further and further away, a fragment of the sublime moment they lost sight of in its entirety.
They remain; we remain; or I, in that state of bewilderment as the pigeon flaps away, flap, flap, fla...,fl...
When the pigeon can be seen no longer, there is a moment of silence wherein hangs our hesitation, our fears of a future unknown, until we are bored of the silence and go back to the conversations.
And there it is again, that impalpable, unbeatable feeling of isolation, lying dormant beneath our feet, for now and for a few moments only, waiting to descend again.