Oh, how alone
	I am
	Among the works of man,
	As I mourn
	For a love
	Which eludes me,
	Like an echo
	Through the crowded streets
	On which I stand.
	Amidst this grandeur
	Which is man's
	There is no wonder,
	There is no love,
	There is no plan.
	These bricks
	Have no aching hearts,
	No broken dreams;
	But I
	Was not made of stone;
	My heart bruises easily.

6/20/77 Victoria, B.C.

© Fred O'Bryant. All rights reserved.

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