Alone, naturally. Two poems.

Alone

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

Edgar Allan Poe

Solitude

alone
i listen to the silence of my thoughts
flying on wings of song to places unknown
over desert hills and snow-capped mountains
stone monuments and raging streams
and fields of gold and red and green
breathing new meaning to worlds without borders
discerning, yet knowing nothing.

i see visions in the dark jostling for space
like shadows on a ledge weaving tales 
of angels dancing in the rain
leprechauns cavorting at rainbow's end
gypsies pitching tent along forgotten byways
circus clowns wiping away tears that no one sees
taunting, and tugging at strings.

i smell the scents of passion unleashed
the whiff of new-fangled sensations 
wreaking havoc on a crumpled heart 
haunted by ghosts of legends past
smoldering, screaming in numb defiance
apathy grudgingly giving in to starkness
acquiescing, but not believing.

i taste the essence of nature's beast
lingering on the fringes of sweet reverie
sun-kissed laughter erupts from nowhere
in hopeful relapse and chaotic anticipation
giddiness reborn to exhale another moment
to impale and trample on too fragile skin
another day, perhaps forever.

i feel the gush of inexorable motion
like tiny waves rushing hurriedly to shore
only to recede into cosmic emptiness 
the lustful touch of phantom fingers
cajoling, beguiling ever so dolefully
leaving me parched and craving for more
to embrace the night as if there's no tomorrow
alone, naturally.

Denn A. Meneses