Given that we,
All we are and be;
The lowly downtrodden,
The once more forgotten,
The captive, and poor
Try to transcend the bridge,
And climb the gloomy ridge
Are we never the alone
On glamorous, velvet throne.
--Or is it the rosy deathbed?
We are the alive and the Dead.
We are alone always, in presence
Of all of the Lonely, in idle ignorance.
Yet we're alone amongst all and any
Who are alone too; a great many.
These fragile memories that we hold
Will always tatter whenever they fold
And dreams keep inside where they grow rotten
Because the whispers of will are steadfast forgotten
But aren't we better for my open wounds;
Expelling the blood from my smothering womb;
Keeping fresh the air in the house of death,
And holding the sound of our last breath?
No, because even our hope is something,
When we who are weary to dear sleep cling.
Oh! Its spilled flesh and fragrant gore!
It keeps me solitary on yonder shore.
So now comes the time to keep us awake,
And dare see the day as it plays life so fake.
It is a Specter like Fetch escorting such demise,
But we are much the quicker, and more the wise.
They still search for vital signs,
Betwixt and beneath broken lines.
Could one earn such a fate,
To solely appreciate;
Such a beautiful and horrible end?
Alone, as one could never intend.
Aghast in blue and pale yellow melancholies.
Spoken in silence in yonder fields and follies
We are never alone by delicate design;
The times we all spent embracing, liberating
In the hollows a plenty time chasing, osculating.