Alone, is Lonely

A single tree on a barren land A rock across the snowy plain A kid in an unknown crowd And a writer on his humble abode Alone The wind swept, caressing the brittle leaves Pieces fell down, then return to speckles of dusts The olden log stood tall, all by itself When the leaves never returned, the log crumbles back to the earth White, white dress Pure white Stretches across the farlands A spot of grey atop layers of white Its dull shines a jewel of the boring kingdom Faces, unfamiliar faces A single tear fell down, then a stream A scream deafened by the whispers By the bystanders, on the onlookers Missing, a mother’s hug Graphenite dusts fills the air The lung, smears the palm, The lips, yet it never stops, The mind, and thus was crumbled, The paper, and his aging skins Lonely Was not the dust left in the wasteland Was not the coldened boulder Nor was it the weeping children Or the coughing recorder It was him, He who takes every hand offered to him, By himself, with nobody else to define him, He embraced that nobody, and that nobody became him Featureless sculpture In desperate for curves, edges And colors For him, and him alone, Alone, is Lonely