Is there any lonelier place
than the abyss, the canyon
of one’s mind. Has one ever faced
a more echo-rhymed abandon
than that of the self – a more
reckless hope of desolation
of desperate, clawing solitude.
Has anyone ever marvelled more than
the ways in which one gazes
transfixed on the burning,
smouldering orange of the sun
it’s breathless, dying gaze.
Have I ever missed,
more than warmth in barren freezes,
the order of a thought?
The one before the two and the three before the jump?
I have never been on such a quest,
never maddeningly searched,
never gaspingly sought
the bird singing perched
on the constant repetition of dawn.
The cave homes echo. They curl around each other
disturbed by our presence
and go chasing
around in the sea’s ear.
But that thrilling cat and mouse
the adrenaline dry oxygen-less shudder
would I welcome now in the silence
of my own mind, to shatter the
creaking, aching panic I feel here.