I am afraid of alonedom.
I am afraid that if I become alone, I will cease to be
This fear shakes me to my core
makes me quake
and cower before my own expectations.

I can pinpoint the moment I became afraid of being alone.
Autumn’s chill new in the air
voices all around me,
like the buzzing of bees.
Her voice meant to be soothing
stabbed through me
ripping my heart from its shelter
leaving it bleeding and raw
on the cold tile floor.

I am afraid of standing alone
against the harshness of the world.
I believe I need a hand to hold
an arm in which to find shelter
but you tell me you won’t be there.
You tell me I have to be my own shelter
for now
but won’t tell me how long ‘for now’ might be.

I feel like I’m dying
drowning in sorrow
flayed alive by my tears.
You tell me you’re hurting too
but it doesn’t show.
I want to know there is hope for something
some piece of possible.

Alone is a reminder
that everything is temporary
like that long ago love
that life cut short by a shot-gun blast.
Alone makes me cling to the things that I have
to the pieces I know how to fit together.
Alone is a place of fear and of anxiety
not a crucible which promises transformation.

“Solitary Strains”

winter rain whispers
pine fire snaps
ancient forest creaks and moans
song of silence all around

pine fire snaps
awakens the senses
brings light into the darkness

ancient forest creaks and moans
soft sounds that muffle
even fainter footsteps on icy stone

song of silence all around
swaddles the spirit
gives strength in solitude

Another trimeric, this time written with some of flipside records’ poetic words.


Her thoughts wander to life’s little quandaries
as claret fire warm her lips and loosens her thoughts.
No amount of wishes can make right the wrong turns
or undo the choices made which brought her here.

Wondering gets one nowhere
except trapped in useless dreams.

Each night the same, fine dinner, fine wine
passing conversation back and forth like cards.
Little thought given to any of it
only idle contact without affection.

Closeness breeds weakness
an imperfection in sensibility.

To the minds of some, two are halves of one
but not closed in these ruddy walls.
Here one lingers, isolated and remote
barely casting shadows to affirm existence.

A second poem flew of my fingers today, so I had to post two for the same prompt. Giving due honor to e.e. cummings for the snippet “two are halves of one”.