Free-form poetry

Lonesome is a cold-weather morning,
colored leaves left for dead on branches,
crystalline air that pierces the heart.

Damaged sons and daughters,
latch-key children of another age,
forgo conversation for faceless technology.

Broken souls wander wistful,
and clutch at low-hanging snags,
desperate not to go under, drown.

Wearing fear as a onerous cloak,
cloth that provides scant little heat,
when all that’s desired is contact.

Chances rarely taken, sadly,
the ability to reach out, embolden,
crushed by self-imposed isolation.


Large Marge said...

Gee, that was really frickin' cheery ;-)

paisley said...

a flagrant description of an age with which i totally identify.. one in which intimacy was reduced to sex, wisdom was exchanged for information, and human interaction has been sold for the price of a PC....