Isolation is but a figment,
An imagined thing.
Examined at great length,
As a shadow extended,
From a former self, drawn out.
Seclusion, like a mirage,
It’s pigment appearing most bold
Till daylight casts its character,
Washed grey as death.
No zest, nor zeal,
shall loneliness portend.
For it is made of air, not string.
But a thing must be of substance
to hold its breath.
Trust not the prison of the night.
But ground the soul in darkness known.
Your friend, Alone, will tell the truth.
For the fragile light of faith
In solitude, does rest.