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Loneliness Dissected.

If I could

dissect loneliness

the stench of it would

overwhelm the senses.
All those long

Saturday nights

in a recliner,
tucked in a shirt or blouse

that has seen no one

but the wearer for days.
Why bother to even

change it when there's
no where to go but

back into the chair
and forward to bed.
A remote control becomes

good company
for one so remote.

Change is wrought

by one finger,
as worlds of love appear

on a dusty screen of
inadmissible passage.
Romance flickers

on all channels,
mocking and haunting

the soul of one
yearning for what is seen

but seldom felt.

If it were possible,
to separate it

from mankind,
the dissection of loneliness

once analyzed,
would have no heart,

it would be eroded away,
an empty chamber

like those of the great
pharaohs beaten into dust

by endless solitude.
A mummified or pappa-fied

remnant of what
could have been and wasn't.
It's arms would be

wrapped tightly
around itself seeking

comfort in an imaginary hug.
It's eyes would be full

of saline drippings,
long dried in powdered rivulets,
that once formed

a constant flow
into a river of the damned.
Sex organs would

be shriveled up
from lack of use,

just raisins that once
bore the grapes

of passions wines.
Fingers would twitch,

and move involuntarily,
longing for the

company of five other
gently interlocking fingers t

o comfort and caress.
The contents of the stomach

would be sparse,
for one eats much less

when they eat alone.
The liver would be

nearly pickled,
in some loneliness

specimens studied,
]from the constant

drowning of the sorrows,
by finding solace,

in bottles of forgetfulness.

None contains one.
Done contains one.
Bone contains one.

All would be

exposed in
the the harsh light of

the examination room,
which would reveal

untidy hair, and pale skin
from long hours indoors

where the opportunities
to be rejected

aren't as daunting.
Ears would be almost

sealed by the
waxing of the waning,
for a soft voice

whispering of love.
The soul, a mere shadow,

dark and wispy
would slip away

before the scalpel
cut it deeper then

life already had.
The brain would

contain reruns,
as well as erased

episodes of the pain,
of all that love once brought,
played over and over again,
a marathon of what

was and is no more.

For loneliness

is a cancer,
it invades ones self

and eats away
at all that is of worth.
Love on the other hand is a
radiating salvation to most,
but many pass through life
untouched too often,
by it's beaming

rays of hope.

Loneliness leaves

men beating
at a hardness that refuses

to abate into softness,
and women stirring

a softness into
a tiny budding

hardness that only
offers them feelings

of emptiness.

All over the world,

the lonely sit and wait,
surrounded by others, thousands,
who are just as lonely too.
Some have bitter partners,
just upstairs, and are left alone
in a house of two.
Some have old flames

that are burning low,
and are still in

hopes of rekindling,
but the torch no

longer carried,
lies untouched by

passions sparks.

Some have never

known true love,
and have only been

used like tissues
that are wiped

and flung away.

Many spend years

in the facade
of a marriage that

is supported
by only one who is using

the children as the glue.

If I could dissect loneliness
I would cut it free from all
who are bent under

its dead weight,
as a slasher intent

I would run madly
across the world,

severing it's ties that bind,
and when at long last exhausted
I reached my humble abode,
I would save the last slice for me,
and carve away

any trace of the
L of one that torments
even my soul at the

lowest moments of my life.

Art~Whimsically Yours Studio

Matthew F. Blowers III-(c)-2016

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(Posted February 10, 2012)

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