It is cold,
and I am lonely
like an indigent beggar
in the borough of Manhattan
where the rich and the poor
live in their ghost worlds.
I yell at the wind
and it roars back.
I prayed for answers
and received none.
Everyone who I have mistakenly
loved has become faint and distant
like far-off drums.
I read poetry to dull
the blade of my anger,
but it grows like a festering sore
it runs and itches. The itch grows
and my hands swell. My face bursts into flames
like when I was stunned by God.
I walk outside futilely
because it is dull inside.
It is dull because there is no life.
No uneven grass
like my facial hair.
No rotten fruits
like my heart
I want to forgive and forget
or grieve and let go for tomorrow
I will receive a call that will warm
me like the fireplace in my neighbor’s apartment.
But today I walk hollowed, uneven, and rotten.
Today I look for answers knowing there are