Loneliness

Purposeless, an intrinsic darkness is revealed.

Walking through a frigid snowy night of bitter strife
again, I've failed to understand a meaning to this life.

Beneath ten-thousand stars, under eyes born by their shine,
I find it very difficult to keep in line.
There's a sense of gratitude for a lack of agony,
but if I had to blame someone that someone would be me.

My moaning to the darkened sky at hours deep into the night
alerts none to my shrinking soul, 'tis only I this call shall toll,
no care for those in bitter strife, left purposeless in what's called "Life",
to each their own, and too much known, does ground my whimsey'd roam.

All sanguine tense had long since past, so toward the night, this truth, I cast,
all choler in my bitter frame begins to justify my aim,
all melancholy scream'ed out in horror-dirge, a vicious route
that does my phlegm express on out, that does, my phlegm, on sidewalks, mount.

Motors' call within my ear, exhaust to normal air compeers,
frozen asphalt roads I tread, no purpose left within my head,
no friends or foes to yet contend, no hate or love to spell my end,
just snow and dark and industry to gaze, for all of time, at me.

For ice and stars and smoggy scenes reveals a bitter truth complete:
That all this world and all this life, and all sense of bitter strife,
is all there is, and what's not's naught, this: my bittermost of thoughts,

That all of choice is but a lie, that all the love reserved for I
does lie within this bitter frame. This choler that permits my aim
reveals to me there's naught to gain, nothing but this bitter frame,
my loneliness calls once again, to wreak it's lurid, empty name,
to play this dull and empty game, my mind and heart are crippled lame,
a terror-shriek of moaning pain. That symphony to conducts the rain.