there will come a time,
you will regret not being alone.
You’ll scurry like a cockroach when the lights come on,
scathe walls with skinless fingers,
walk barefoot and barren back,
trying to flee from the noise inside,
and you’ll see people for who they are,
afraid to be alone.
What strength and sinew,
men and women who choose the life of solitude have,
without so much as the flutter of apprehension,
without any doubt,
But what spine and love,
those that choose to return,
and effuse their wisdom into the fabric of humanity,
have better yet.
the paradox of losing and finding your self,
to be selflessly of servitude.
Try as you may,
listen to the hucksters of academe,
or the deluded,
hypnotised by technology and science,
the secrets remain with the sages and saints,
with the barefoot troubadours,
with the barbarians and nomads,
desert folk and mountain people,
farmers and shepherds,
those who have time,
to simmer their thoughts,
thrash open their wounds without shame,
and suture themselves in front of us all.
I’ve never seen a thing of repute,
roll of the tongue of a man infatuated with attention,
nor a woman that needs reassurance at every pulse of her vein.
I’ve not seen hands that wait for eyes to ogle,
create a thing that benefits us all.
You’ll cry a tear yet,
for not embracing more solitude.