Alexander Palmer

March 29, 2004 - Florida
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isolation, romanticised.

isolation tastes of frigid air and the roaring ocean's waves,
there is no one who truly knows me, least of all the god to whom I used to pray,
it is a taxing master, its price is steep for those who choose to pay,
but as I stare at its reflection, I find I would have it no other way.

the trick of it is balance, knowing how to fade away,
into the background of existence, away from the sun's harsh rays,
all you have to do is know the role you were meant to play,
a forgettable extra, and darling, the whole world's a stage.

and I find it is much easier not to try and fill these jagged hollows,
the soul will not be content with connection's shallow echoes,
and there is a strange sort of beauty, in the vastness of it all,
an emptiness I will not content, not while I hear that lovely siren's call.

I cast aside my crucifix, but I have always been a man of devotion,
when it called my name so sweetly, how could I have not noticed?
alone in my room, sealed in my tomb, these are the only times I will feel true,
true to the dark ugly pieces of me that others only ever confused.

people are such brutal beasts, the sting of quiet cannot compare,
to their mocking taunts, to their stoic lack of care,
but this solitude is comforting, I wrap my wounds with its silence,
forgetting the bitter sting of harsh words and spoken violence.

it is my muse, my companion, perhaps my truest friend,
there is no limit to its grasp, its presence knows no end,
I am not joyous in its comforts, but in this I may be content,
no barbed word will ever hurt me that inexpressible way again.
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