I was strolling down a lonely street one night--
It was dark and cold and wet.
And I met a man—
Old and tired and silent.
The road sparkled under the lone, flickering street lamp--
Buzzing off and on, off and on...
Cowering in a cold iron doorway,
He stopped me, asked for some change,
Coughed and stuck out his worn hand—
Ratted gloves, shivering.
Said his name was Loneliness.
“Pleased to meet you,” I told him,
grasped his hand—
caloused and cracked,
peered into his eyes and saw myself.
The street lamp went out,
Then on.
I pulled away and searched my pockets—
Warm and soft and comfortable.
I fingered a dollar bill,
But flipped him a quarter, then ran to catch my bus.
Riding the bus home that night—
It was dark and cold and wet.
And I met a man—
Old and tired, silently staring back at me.
And he was crying.
Abandoned buildings
Flashed by the window.
Stores closing down for the night, shadows moving about,
Blurring together--
Faceless people going nowhere.
Life—
All around,
Silently dying,
Slipping softly into the darkness of uncertainty.
He wiped the tears from his eyes.
Said his name was Loneliness.
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Gnawing sadness in this poem, so profoundly expressed. Perfect.
Cynthia
Be always safe,
Karen