Mere words won’t penetrate his self-imposed vacuum.
In his presence, the laughter of buttercups collapses
Like the gentle breeze of an autumn day; awaiting
The onslaught of winter’s cold smile.
A drifter with roots no soil will grasp; for fear
Of contamination from dark dreams of misery.
As the man who drags his cloud around;
In silent condemnation of the joyous ones,
Whispers his hatred for all of life’s happy lovers into
The blackness of night that he wishes to embrace;
