He stares at the frosted window,
dreaming of pigeons in flight.
Probing shadows in his oblivion
while the neighborhood is asleep
on this night bathed in blue light.
His heart refuses to surrender
to someone else’s handwriting.
He’s an outsider, perhaps a victim.
No one knows how he spent hours
imagining a beautiful world.
Unable to express, struggling
for a line to be understood.
An empty love bleeding sentences
that can never be written.
Such beauty, a flower in the field
belonging to some lucky bee.
Jealousy hits his innocence
like a knife to a man’s desiring,
leaving his wounds unhealed.
For the lady who reads letters
from some scented envelopes.
There is blood in the trash bin
and it does belong to him.
Among the crumpled sheets,
the fingerprints and drops of ink-
a memory of his scarred sanity.
How he endured the paper cuts;
this man’s life in blank pages.
The postman didn’t come today
and the letters were undelivered.
No one has foreseen death’s coming-
such as his knocking on doors
and opening of mailboxes, each morning.
They found a fountain pen in his hand,
motionless and still- in cold blood.
Solitude Amidst the Maddening Crowd
