The pattern again.
As never before
I feel the threat of loneliness loom
and the lure of the sensual ephemeral pleasures
that may appease the shallow fragmented self
that seeks escape to numb the self
that clamors for truth.
Such a vacuum lingers.
Passionless. Without a country,
belonging nowhere and to nobody;
for attachment forms strings
that pull we puppets.
Have I been asleep for 20 years or merely in a stupor?
When I probe into my inner storehouse,
there is nothing but the echo of a confused cry
tethered within the cell of a false identity
reverberating against the musty darkness