ALONE

the long-haul is not just unbearable
but impossible without that other
hand. Dear one
when you cry in the night
only the darkness has ears
and it doesn’t deal in answers.

It is the blotting paper that distains to give legible feedback
it just makes large blobs
and snuffs out even the vestiges or echoes of your voice.
Each scribbley line is the edge of desperation
etched in dry blood.

I hear foot-steps
and old boards creaking.
I see fragments of old ghosts
treading their ancient paths
wearing the skin parchment thin
and the crust of earth, splinter-dry
into powdered bones
desiccate like the memory of long-gone barren wombs.

Won’t you join us, for old time’s sake?
Hunker down and ponder on the pointlessness?
Delete the singularity
- the tunnel vision of consciousness –
for an instant of respite?