(26 DEC 1943 / Wyandotte MI)


How could I ever understand
what it is you choose
to call existence
and how could I ever
tell you what it means to me?

A solitary dot stained
on the canvas
of the expanding universe,
I sense a primal shiver
whenever, 'stranger'
cries out from a page
or whispers in the aether.

February, 2008

User Rating: 2,1 / 5 ( 13 votes ) 14

Comments (14)

Alone is our most intimate comanion. When we die they will bury alone with us like we were lovers. (smiles.) Nice moody feel to this pen
wonderful poem...even as a dot we never get lost..10
a stranger is a friend you've yet to meet and what i find is stanger still the vast unknow inside of me that wanders out into crowded streets lol sorry what i mean is its a very good poem and i just wanted to address how so many people are more alone in a crowded room then they are by themselves
that was very good poem well writen
Great poem.... moves the mountains within one's soul.
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