Poem

Being Alone

Surf pounds relentless into shore,
yet, instead of the roar
is heard the ocean of silence
behind it.

And the breeze itself whispers
that though it be near
the most ardent embrace cannot
find it.

This is being alone.

Golden blue, they clasp each other
these waves in moribund procession,
dying in rhythmic monotony, like
the feeling…

of night’s four walls and ticking,
‘til the heartbeat seems aligned
and the eyes know every nuance of
the ceiling.

This is being alone.

Now the morning,
and the wandering
of gulls in their circling dance,
remind him that his own heart
has no home.

And there in the azure horizon
of this unframed canvas meant for two,
his mind sees written, “This is
being alone.”

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2007