Loneliness is the
wounded howling of a soul
unheard beyond the dusty halls of a
necropolis heart;
it is the
silence and stillness of
downcast eyes,
of an inert tongue,
of a weary face
hidden by a sculptured mask
and veiled in the shadow
of an isolated crypt
while the bright world around it
moves and resounds and lives
beyond the deadness;
Loneliness means being
buried alive in your own
tight-lipped sarcophagus of
awkwardness, diffidence,
each faux pas a fatal blow
to your ego as you convince,
and convict,
yourself with a death sentence
of self-exile; embalming yourself in the
saltiness of your own self-loathing,
removing needful organs of
love and connection and friendship
in denial of your humanity
and setting them aside in canopic jars
while filling your body with
natron, that salty crystal remaining
after all of your tears have dried.
Loneliness is when you have
mummified yourself
with the ancient desert ritual
of crying yourself dry
in a tomb of your own making.
Loneliness is
being stuck between the
world of the living
and the land of the dead,
unable to pass on
and unwilling to return back,
your ka circling like a vulture,
yet never ascending,
never descending;
ever circling without end,
unwilling to abandon the corpse
and unwilling to find new lands
to call home.