Resistance grows ever more futile,
preference for solitude gains stature,
life of a hermit again enticing.
Ashamed of not crying, embarrassed when I do.
Carefully enumerating trespasses,
while denying conspicuous mistakes.
Bitter at past unwarranted insults,
loss yet again of face
while having no other cheek to turn.
Phrases in retorts amateurishly mistimed.
Once powerful adjectives now fail to describe
what the street corner preacher advises:
multiple aphasia in realizing
rise time is much slower than decay.
No thundering epiphany for me,
only ghosts of outdated realizations.
Last time I looked was the first time I’d seen
the imaginary albatross gliding overhead.
Trite and cliché spooning like lovers.
Never quite managing even to approach
all I intended to be; can you hear me now?
Slightly squinting in the glare of hypocrisy
makes you shield your eyes with apathy.
Over sensitive yet taciturn when questioned,
parodying melancholy to hide despair.
Wearing loneliness like a wrinkled old shirt,
time slows and then escapes into thin smoke,
Genuine facts have backpedaled behind fiction,
the avalanche waits patiently.
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Author:
Dan Williams (
Offline) - Published: March 23rd, 2026 00:21
- Comment from author about the poem: Yes I do tend to run on.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 16
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments5
epic aint just a word, is it .. it sits proudly, here on this page .. this is so good and needs more views .. but that's just my view and I've got a thing about albatrosses .. Neville
Here one thought connects to the next just as they do in the brain and in free association we travel. Nicely said with a series of metaphors.
Yup the favoured old shirt is quite comfortable and soothing 🙏🏻🕊️
My friend, this hits heavy…there’s a restless, inward pressure all through it that doesn’t let up. It feels like circling yourself, seeing too much and not enough at the same time. That tension stays. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
You wear that loneliness honest here—like it’s been through the wash too many times but you’re not ready to throw it out.
And all those near-realizations, they don’t explode—they just sit beside you, quiet as a hangover that won’t quite leave.
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