The Point

There is a point that no manner of new age reading,
review of ancient scripture,
or calling out to the spirits within or outside seems to provide any peace of mind.

This,
I think,
is the very essence of loneliness.

It is the bone chilling wind that can hit in the middle of the hottest summer.
No one would know that what I need is a blanket.

It is the impossible sweat-drenched heat-wave that can nearly drown the victim in the middle of the coldest winter.
No one would know that what I need is to be covered in ice.

It is the tastelessness of the good food, and the allure of the sweet poisons.

It is the heartburn that water causes, and wine, strangely, relieves.

The point is that singular!
That sharp!
That thin, as to be invisible even as it pokes me.

The sages of olden times call out to me.

The saints, the ones who deserve it, pray for my soul.

My ears hear noises that irritate me where there is no noise
and curse the music from the prettiest of birds..

The point is that singular!
That sharp!
That thin, as to be invisible even as it pokes me.