I sit alone With my thoughts, My poetry Gone. There is no tomorrow, No yesterday, Only an empty now. There were once those Who accused me Of living in my past; Others, of living For the future. I have lost both, Lost everything With any meaning. I've tried To hold fast The past, I've tried To vision the Future, To make it real By dent of Thought and hope. Neither worked. Yet--neither Has the present Yielded lasting peace Or joy. What, then, is left? Whom may I touch And feel That special thrill Of discovering A kindred soul? Even the casual friend Is gone, Let alone Some spirit Whose ancient self Is married mystically To my own. I've tried to love-- But my feet Carried me Scarcely any distance Along the arduous way. I'm not the man I thought, Or thought I could become. Perhaps there never was, Never could be, A better world, A more perfect me. But now-- Perfection matters less Than once it did. I would settle For much less Than I ever Thought I could. Still, I want more! More, at least, Than I have. I know There can be More than this! I know-- But I know not How to find it Anymore, even if I ever did before.
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