Colin F. Jones

ALONE

Alone among the nothings of worthlessness,
Groping in the nights black curtain folds,
Dangling like a corpse in Earthlessness,
Formed from empty shapeless moulds.
Vacant pools of emptiness,
The cold clamminess of loss,
The ceaseless torment, and great stress,
With no deciding coin to toss.
We grope frustrated blind with tear,
From the outside looking in,
Wracked by an inner kind of fear,
With no goals left to win:
Alone with loneliness and despair
Like a silence within a din.