Poem 4

It's true, I stand, embroiled in
youth; Incapable perhaps of ensnaring truth.

But raindrops whisper on window panes,
These silent screams are far from feigned,
Not isolation, nor in lull;
A hollow cycle, redundant dull.

Crystallised - left to fade,
Abandoned too soon, left to jade.
And stumble on in senseless wist,
Perpetually enthralled by that six day tryst.

So tonight I mourn each sobbing cry,
Of a word deserted, to slowly die.

In all this - I matter little;
This listless world is not yet brittle
Enough to crack and smash and rent,
No feat of mine could craft a dent,
In this a world so doomed to grey,
Wherein the abject nothing lay.