Whole

Interior monologue-styled free-verse poem about loneliness.

There is a whole within the fabric of my very being. 

I try and fill it with tall tales of crisis and endless theories that will never live in the page;

I try and ignore it through vices and false claims to be but a lonely and ever-forgotten sage.

I inhale possibility and exhale misery; I drown in words on and off the page,

I fear the extent of myself; shall I remain but forever a being of rage?

I hang my head in sorrow at the promise of the 'morrow,

a set of days bled to repeat, never a new story to be but my treat.

Such a course, my sanity to beat; such a course, eternally without retreat.

For is such but the meaning in my life,

forever perilled to be but enthralled in strife;

eternally struggled 'gainst the alliance of faith,

for love to be mine, shall I ever have perpatrathe?

And so the story goes,

to always be alone;

and so the tale goes,

never yet, fully shown.

Author's Note

First Draft