The Desist

A lonely fellow will only find, What lonely believes a lonesome fellow should mind. He will weave through the waves, Of the tallest valleys and the stoutest mountains, Drifting down an empty river waiting to be swayed. All the while, The sun rises for miles, The moon permeates the sky, Maneuvering the currents and tides, And lurking off to the side, A tiger peers at his desolate meat with indifferent eyes. The lonesome man has taken from life, What life will never take from him, As nature will not grow an old soul, Anything more than four limbs. Destiny is lonely’s favorite murmur, For without it lonely has no fervor.