Henry David Thoreau
In quiet desperation we mortals do roam.
We lack an essential that has yet to be bestowed.
Spendthrift and hoarder alike do bemoan,
the terrors of loneliness that haunt our abode.
We race hither and thither in search of some joy.
Ravenous and desirous, we walk all alone.
Night’s shades of gloom our façades destroy,
When we find that one occupant lays claim to our home.
We search out our friendships for an inkling of light,
some gleaming bright ray that could divulge our ploy.
For our appearance of resilience is deceiving to sight,
and under the veil hides the terrified boy.
He thinks, he wonders, he prays all aloud.
His wishes are simple, pure and to the point.
Could there be one stranger that will emerge from the crowd,
and his fears of solitude in old age disjoint?
What measure of time has gone since that prayer
that he sent so earnestly to yonder cloud?
He looks skyward, the cosmos to stare.
Humility his demeanor, no reason to be proud.
His spirit, downtrodden, and yet he endures.
A match of wit and beauty is terrible rare.
He cannot be satiated by the coarser of lures
(not even the majesty of flaming auburn hair).
Stoic and silent he goes on each day,
Hoping that God will show him the way.
Cody B.
(I know more people than would ever admit feel like this, but it is good to talk and write of such things).
