indifference
flows awkwardly
from the emptiness
I hold.

impatience
wrapped within
the cluttered unknown
of my world.

ah, but to understand
remains too glorious
a request.

and to what end?
unto which life have
I been born?

random pains
of selfish sorrow
from which none
but I
my self can be
delivered.

stranged.
estranged.
forstranged.
bestranged.

two lines --
and I must walk
within.

goodness.
and perhaps some
grace.




by Charles Fry
"Solace"