Poem By Kevin Patrick

We are born alone
And we die alone
And between the two
We live as ghosts

Begging for love
At a banquet full of crumbs
Drowning for friends
In a sea of shallow bums

Desperate for connections
Mulled to deaf in poor translation
Searching for reflections
Redacted by our egos Lacerations

Always looking for the shelter
In the hearts and minds of another
Yet still the final verdict
Is that we are castaway as hermits

And that between the womb and it's tomb
We are still and always alone

Comments about Alone

Between birth and death we live as ghosts. Every soul takes birth with body alone and faces death of body alone. Shelter and love make life beautiful. An amazing poem is very brilliantly penned..5 stars..
'We are born alone And we die alone And between the two We live as ghosts' this stanza sets up beautifully the lines 'Begging for love At a banquet full of crumbs' it is true we are born alone unless twins, triplets etc who share from the womb, even in death alone we can die in memories of choice in good company loved your poem
Very well written poem, Kevin. But I beg to differ. My near death experience has taught me that we are not alone at the time of our death.
Hauntingly beautiful. Truth hurts. But i aint giving up on love. Its the only nonsense which makes sense
Our mind and brain is encased by the cranium. Only a neurosurgeon can access. It's an illusion that we are not alone. Great write.

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Other poems of PATRICK

The Race Track Of Time

There is no point running backwards
retracing stolen footprints
in anticlockwise course
time cant reverse force

A Tale Of Winters Dream

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Calls to the breeze of the winters chill
The brittle arms of the lone Birch
Lay still to the frost but are not deterred

A Rose Grows In The Night

A rose grows in the night
Lit beneath the diamond lights
Petals smooth in silken magic
Blossom crimson shaded fabric

Oceanus Wakes (A Pretentious Name From The Drop Of A Hat)

Blind is the ocean to the sound of its motion
As it roars with momentum of immeasurable melody
Ushering its whitecaps of sinuous elocution
Against the gold Shorelines with foam balm fidelity

My Garden

3 feet high, and counting parallel far and wide
My Garden grows and overflows with weeds and grass
their nimble arms crawl up my house, and neatly bind
as coats of moss knocks on my door with earthly mass

I Am Not A Poet

I am not a poet
But a linguistic Beachcomber
Scouring the pleated sandy shores
For whatever grimy grains of meaning