Please Read:
Lotus Eaters

They seek a light and wander to my door
in hopes to mend their half forgotten souls.
Into their hearts a numbing drink I pour
which never yet has filled the depthless holes;
And every man who’s born is born alone.

Here comes a mighty one who’s good at games,
and at his side a retinue of boys,
all hangers-on, all known by shortened names.
Yet to the one these all are only toys.
And in his crowd, this one’s also alone.

An older one, wiser for age, sits down,
and his grey eyes envy the youthful throng.
He tastes his drink. It eases not his frown.
His friends are gone, and soon he’ll move along.
And where he goes, he knows he goes alone.

A poet scribbles on a napkin here,
and cries, “If only I could get it out!
Yet words will not contain the whole, I fear,
cannot express the fullness of my shout.
No one can hear, and I am all alone.”

They all come here to ease some of that pain
when pallid lotuses are all they find.
Yet still I offer them fermented grain
as they are not alone within this bind:
for every man who’s born is born alone.