A Yearning

Poetry for love.
Poetry for laughter.
Poetry for sunshine.
Do my words create anything
other than hollow sounding Hypotheses?
Woe to the writer,
She has no love.
Woe to the reader,
He feels no joy.
Infernally and eternally,
Intermitantly.
Inevitably wandering.
Crying tears of wasted time.
Pounding fists
clenched around a web of
pain and imbedded fears.
Raging, wailing, regretting, wishin.
Lost love.
Past potential.
Watching helplessly.
Choosing indifference,
Preferring antipathy.
Longing for relief of this agony.
 C.R. 2007