A path through an empty park
At the end of day,
A lone walker in the dark
As streetlamps fend the night away.
The night air feels cold,
The wind’s caress is frigid
Life is fast, my soul feels old.
Streetlamps; silent, rigid.
People pass in yellow
light, wordless as required,
out in the night, exhausts bellow,
as I wander, weary but untired.
Lonesome and yearning, my hand
Grips my cellphone tight,
my friends are far away, and
yet they’re here: in my sight.
Phone: vibrate. Please, connect,
and bring companions to me here,
give life to my dreams, resurrect
those memories that sear
with happiness that’s heart-wrenching,
my hold on you won’t slip,
phone; please become a hand
And return my own hand’s grip.
This is a poem I wrote some time ago, on the theme of loneliness. Yes, I know loneliness as a concept is a bit overdone and cliched in poetry – we poor misunderstood poets like to indulge ourselves in somewhat vain laments at our aloneness in the world – but at the time of writing this poem loneliness was the overpowering feeling in my life, living as a lodger in an unfriendly home in a dull small town where I had recently moved for work. I spent a lot of evenings wandering the quiet streets, smoking cigarettes, going to the newsagents, or going to buy beer; any excuse really to get out of the cabin-sized bedroom I was renting.
(it took me a while to try and get the metre and rhymes right for this. I normally don’t bother with them much. Anyone who reads this and has constructive criticism to give, please comment 🙂 )