Only

So universally private,
this feeling.
Harbored within,
hoarded selfishly.
The moon feels it too,
how can it not?
Perched in the night sky,
near. Eternally near.
Near enough to envy;
but far. Forever far.
Far enough to be lonely.

The solitary goose,
one flap away from it’s flock.

The secluded corner,
once epitomizing peace,
now a tomb.
After time,
alone becomes old,
worn out.
A raggedy thing
that needs,
like all else,
to be abandoned.