Solitude

A hundred years of solitude,

is too long a period to comprehend.

When even a short time alone,

does not seem to end.

Ask the people in dungeons, or on death row,

they will tell you one meaning of solitude,

But they know not what I speak of, they’re not free,

for it’s one thing to be truly free, and quite another just wishing to be.

You might say I’m free,

and not quite wrong you would be.

But alas! it won’t be true completely,

as I’m bound by the chains of reality.

I’m free but not truly,

I enjoy my life but not completely,

I’m surrounded by people but not really,

for somewhere, someplace, I’m missed by someone deeply.

I’m no Mozart, nor Picasso,

I’m no Beethoven, nor Leonardo,

I’m just a person not worth much ado,

But still, someone might love me, wherever I go.

And I ask myself, why do people have a knack,

of going away and not coming back,

I wish, I fear, I tremble and I cry,

I won’t let that happen I say, albeit with a sigh.

Do I know what’ll happen tomorrow?

Where my life will be, and where I’ll go,

Alas! The answer is a silent No!!!

But then, in the end I have someone to whom I’ll go.

As there is an urge, a fire always kindled anew,

Because of the way I’m attracted to you,

Like Scooby is stuck with Doo,

That’s the way I want to stick with you.