Lonely People

All over the world, in the silence of a room, on the emptiness of a leather couch,

In the vacant side of a bed, in the hushed whispers of flowers by the window

Live lonely people, speaking a forgotten language in the dialect of loneliness

They surf the tide of impossible dreams, they live in quatrains of quarantine

Their world is a shell of cocooned sleep, their nightmares are cobbled streets

All over the world, in the vacuous emptiness of brackets, on the ledge of silence

On roads that go on and on, on bridges that collapse even before they are built

Live lonely people, circumnavigating their fears in a journey of never-ending blackness

They speak to their betrayals; they nurture the child drifting in deserts of distress

Their universe is a starless night of shame; their fantasies are a warm embrace.