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"