Since in every man’s heart wilderness is a mistress,
I wonder if society is as lonely without
me as I was in its seas? · Drowning not to be noticed
but to be freed. · A need to be seen, though bred into me,
has no power over my hands, or my lips, or my feet,
or my eyes, as the burning sight of a hermit weeping
makes my final escape uncertain and stays my great mind’s
execution of its master plan. · Finding my Self home
sick like it’s the fifth of July, life phoning in its own
cancellation, how feelings have a way of finding me
when, in moments of self-imposed exile, what I question
rewrites logic and denies explanation. · Taking from
me that arrogance which conveniently blinds a man to
the pain he causes, loneliness makes me oblivious
to my inner nature’s own remorseful forces. · All but
knowing the most primal of truths that, when you’ve committed
evil against someone, you can never forgive yourself
until by them you’ve been forgiven. · Apology will
never be enough, ripping into time’s fabric a hole
through which emptiness itself cannot pass, not until its
silk ribbon fastens closed the wound self-denial opens.