The Silent Cry Poetry Collection

Solitude

Solitude

She sits there like an empty room,

A silhouette blended with the gloom.

Eyes like a curtained window pane,

Face as cold as a frosted lane.

Shadows spiral across her form,

And like an empty room she mourns,

For things with meaning ripped away,

Never to face the light of day.

Tortured cries ring in her ears,

As insanity draws ever near.

Screams of young children fill her air,

While tears stream without a care.

Locked inside her own mind,

She begins to smell of things unkind.

Decaying roses fill the sense,

Making those who smell it tense.

Neglecting her own needing,

She stirs enough for feeding.

Once she ate food so sweet,

Now it is bitter fruit she depletes.

On her tongue it is so sharp,

And slides sour down her throat till it hits its mark.

Colours bleed from her hand,

And spill onto the carpet land.

She sits in front of a distorted painting,

While she curls up still waiting.

Claw marks scar the walls,

While her desperation calls.

Unresponsive she sits there,

Desperate to escape her living nightmare.

It is then you hear her softly moan,

“Oh the joy of being alone.”