The Lonely

Is this the spirit of a daydream—
Immortality in my view?
In restless wandering it can seem
The fear woven will come true,

Singing, “Woe. Woe to the friendless shore
Where no footfall bore me.
Woe. Woe to the moon I adore
In twilight that dies before me.

“Black stars—bleed thy foreign tongue
To the past’s seat in my eyes…
Recall when my dreams were young
And hold me when I rise.

“I grow this nightfall weary
Of the years that live with me—
I want the eons littering my breast
To die and give me rest.

“All my love was but a gift
Set alone—set adrift
A pyre of my own making,
And in that flame I am waking

“I am burning—and nothing stops
The hunger of my teardrops
That help my spirit die
As my saviors rise to the sky.”

Is it the spirit of desired death
That makes me feel so old?
Why have the flames of my breath
Grown so cold?