this solitude pounds deafeningly
between my ears.
After the forgotten slap
inducing that first
sharp intake of air,
to my first memory
of a Dresden widow beaming down
into the four walls of my pram,
just what kind of oblivion did I inhabit;
how does it differ from the misery
gripping me now?
In this realm it is the sentence
of every soul to be alone,
even as flesh touches flesh,
reaching the heights of ecstasy
of mortal love.
Soon it is over
and the wails return,
cursing the passion which ensnared
this fractal of spirit
in a world of its own.
Copyright Francis 2020