Sheer Loneliness Dissected.

Loneliness dissected.

on October 18, 2002.

The - L - of - ONE- 

If I could dissect loneliness, 

the stench of it would

overwhelm the senses. 

All those long Saturday

nights in a recliner, 
tucked in a shirt or blouse

that has seen no one

but the wearer for days.

Why bother to even

change when there's 
no where to go, but

back into the chair 
and forward to bed.

A remote control

becomes good company 
for one so remote.

Change is wrought by one finger, 
as worlds of love appear

on a dusty screen of 
inadmissible passage.

Romance flickers

on all channels, 
mocking and haunting

the soul of one 
yearning for what is

seen but seldom felt.

If it were possible, 
to separate it from mankind, 
the dissection of

loneliness once analyzed, 
would have no heart,

it would be eroded away, 
an empty chamber like

those of the great 
pharaohs beaten into dust

by endless solitude. 
A mummified or pappa-fied

remnant of what 
could have been and wasn't.

It's arms would

be wrapped tightly 
around itself seeking

comfort in an imaginary hug.

It's eyes would be

full of saline drippings, 
long dried in powdered rivulets, 
that once formed a constant flow 
into a river of the damned.

Sex organs would

be shriveled up 
from lack of use,

just raisins that once 
bore the grapes of

passions wines. 
Fingers would twitch,

and move involuntarily, 
longing for the

company of five other 
gently interlocking fingers

to comfort and caress. 
The contents of the

stomach would be sparse, 
for one eats much less

when they eat alone. 
The liver would

be nearly pickled, 
in some loneliness

specimens studied, 
]from the constant

drowning of the sorrows, 
by finding solace,

in bottles of forgetfulness.

None contains one. 
Done contains one. 
Bone contains one. 

All would be exposed in 
the the harsh light

of the examination room, 
which would reveal

untidy hair, and pale skin 
from long hours indoors

where the opportunities 
to be rejected aren't as daunting. 
Ears would be almost

sealed by the 
waxing of the waning, 
for a soft voice

whispering of love. 
The soul, a mere

shadow, dark and wispy 
would slip away

before the scalpel 
cut it deeper then

life already had. 
The brain would

contain reruns, 
as well as erased

episodes of the pain, 
of all that love once brought, 
played over and over again, 
a marathon of what

was and is no more.

For loneliness is a cancer, 
it invades ones

self and eats away 
at all that is of worth. 
Love on the other hand is a 
radiating salvation to most, 
but many pass through life 
untouched too often, 
by it's beaming rays of hope. 
Loneliness leaves men beating 
at a hardness that refuses

to abate into softness, 
and women stirring a softness into 
a tiny budding hardness that only 
offers them feelings

of emptiness. 
All over the world,

the lonely sit and wait, 
surrounded by others,

thousands, 
who are just as lonely too.

Some have bitter partners, 
just upstairs, and are left alone 
in a house of two. 
Some have old flames

that are burning low, 
and are still in hopes of rekindling, 
but the torch no longer carried, 
lies untouched by passions sparks.

Some have never

known true love, 
and have only been

used like tissues 
that are wiped and flung away.

Many spend years in the facade 
of a marriage that

is supported by only one

who is using the children as the glue.

If I could dissect loneliness 
I would cut it free from all 
who are bent under its dead weight, 
as a slasher intent

I would run madly 
across the world,

severing it's ties that bind, 
and when at long last exhausted 
I reached my humble abode, 
I would save the last slice for me, 
and carve away any trace of the 
L of one that torments 
even my soul at

the lowest moments of my life.