It’s somewhat disconcerting to imagine,
yourself puking your guts
out by the street, while the rest
make merry amidst flashing lights.
It’s simply wrenching to realise
you’ve created that
fate for yourself, as you declared
that solitary war to fight.
Against seclusion.
Against dependency.
Against history.
After which you find that you want just to be loved and love in return.
The simplicity of a burning need,
yet trecherous complicacies to feat.
Inimitable strength has an antidote,
by Will he calls himself.
A meandering road his ego gloats,
till ‘Enough’ he finally gasps.
And there he is.
What would become of him,
of me of us.
What exists,
maybe just, lust.
No.
Trust I must,
in hope,
a rope,
to cope.
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