This lonely page is the sole refuge
Of a very lonely Heart
Who beats lukewarm blood
Throughout the empty body.
It is very cold.
The empty body would try to shiver
And so warm itself,
But it finds no motivation.
Would the blood just swish around this shell of a body?
It is far too empty.
And the Heart, stiff and frozen,
Tries its best to beat
Without the needed life-giving warmth.
Is it possible it has functioned this long?
It is surely sputtering to a stop.
Is it really valid that mere
loneliness
Has paralyzed passion?
Murdered motivation?
Destroyed any hospitality that this being once harbored
When it was not a lonely Heart
Taking refuge in this lonely page?
For I am lonely, after all,
And it is very cold.
I must admit, this is the most depressing poem I've ever written. Is it too saturated with sob stories to be any good, or in my sorrow, did I actually create something worthwhile?
