Blessed be solitude

That space and time

Through which to know thyself

And in a sense no one else

To become intimate with silence,

Learn the sounds

Of the universe passing,

Know a nine-twelve heartbeat

From one trembling in at seven thirty on a restless empty evening

To question gravity, because 

It seems to have more pull

Than it used to and physics don't work that way.


A wise man said solitude is the Gift,

Though, much like life,

Happens to be one unasked for.

One that takes as, or more readily 

Than it grants what gifts often mean.

No replacement, no need for, no want for

There exists as much madness

In knowing as in not

To do both

Is no gift, but,

It is solitude.

View strangelittleboy's Full Portfolio