Philisophy, Poem, Poetry

Solitude

Is is existent and real,
Is it fleshed out,
With bones and muscles and tendons,
Or is it a tease,
Have the voices heard in stormy nights,
Given birth to my lost friend…

Has he returned once again,
To hold me in this moment,
Does he hold in his stomach,
empty words of comfort,
Has he returned once again,
My forsaken existence of silence.

Is it in the chimes at the doorsteps,
Is it in the gentle rustles in the night,
Is it in piercing songs of the blackbird,
Is it in the gongs of the midnight hour.

Is it the arrival of my long lost friend,
Fleshed out with bones and muscles and tendons…

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