LONELY

LONELY

 

Lonely. Abandoned. Irrelevant.

Slashes of broken window on the floor

in a deserted house

trying to pick up the pieces

and see clearly again

what happened when it wasn’t looking.

I watch people keep to themselves

like old housewells

nobody’s drunk from in years.

But sometimes you can see the iron

run like blood in their tears

when they look in the mirror at themselves

like watercolours in the rain

and stains on the bathtub.

The young say

who wants to be them

and the old say nothing

knowing we’re all going to die sooner or later

and the lies we used in our youth

like weapons against others

now turn like the moon’s two-faced dagger

against us.

I could look at it as a hard lesson

in empathy and compassion I suppose

and learn to make a game out of it all

like a child trying to contrive a game

out of its own bones

just to pass the time

until even death dies in me

along with everything else.

I used to think of compassion as water

but now I’m more inclined to see it as fire.

And I’ve given up those grail quests

and solitary holy wars with my own shadow

all the ferocious sincerity of my seeking

as just so many journeys

that turned their back

on their own enlightenment

the moment they left home.

Returning objects to mind

the house is full of the moon

when no one’s home

and nothing’s missing.

I leave everything behind

and steal away like a thief from my window

as silent and old as the moon.

 

PATRICK WHITE