Death on Hold

Once,
the what of lonely was asked,
“why is this heart feeling tired
worn out
fatigued?

Are flowers
no longer to open their petals
skies to remain gray and void of love's colors?”

The what of lonely invoked the dialectic with
“Is this isolation but the result of passion unanswered,
regrets unheard,
contriteness unaccepted,
weeping without acceptance of self?”

With a caress...

“Could lonely be more than a word of sadness?
Might it be but death on hold?”

The questioning gathered its shadows and disappeared,
leaving behind a robin's egg,
moving precariously
beneath a mother
peering out intently
as a dawning sky
emerged.