Ballad of the lonely hearts

Poem about lonliness and how it seems to only get worse. How the lonely ones never seem to find one another, how they can't seem to find Lonely Hearts St.

A Ballad for the Lonely

Dead Whiskey bottles clang in my wake
Desolute hopes, derelict dreams each a link
So many years clawing at the walls of a darkened abyss
Crimson tears dribble down cold black stone
Hear the suffering so silent in its agitation

Cataclysimic catastrophe, cavilcade of calamity
Every attempt to find the worth while futile
Every pace for peace problamatic!

Where do lonely hearts dine on a saturday night?
Who do they dream of while the needle translates tones of blue?
What dreams are left for those who journey alone?
Just ask any old grave covered in lonesome decay

Hopeless romantic heart is but shattered stained glass
Each piece a lamentation
Each color a hope, a dream, once vibrant, ordained in some way
Each poem an attempt to discover, an attempt to redeem

Where do lonely hearts dine on a saturday night?
Who do they dream of while the stars burn bright?
Lamentations, ballads ring out, hear the beauty, the fear, the doubt
Mournful are the devices that distill the dreams of the sovereign stargazer
The Whippoorwill sings tonight, where the lonely hearts dine on a Saturday night.