Pointlessness
And all it is
Is but a yearn, in solitude
In journeys of solo, in moments of thought
Deep, pertinent, persistent
Yet just irrelevant at its actual frame
Where has the fabled magic gone
Where is the current celestial connection
As a dried out farmland, or a broken caboose
Yet pretty and picture perfect
Neither matters
For it could have
Why men rape, why wives annoy
Why me, why and what for
Yet these are not of the pondering
Yet are a facade of the want of lone
For a solo retains its beat
In an accompaniment it just recedes
Losing more than self
Wanting more than no less of the self
Yet in a transient permanence
Some random ramblings are a muse
Some are nothing or worse
Yet audible, detestable or otherwise
Who cares
A solo is as is
The sheer forces of influence
Are always a faux pas
Yet the role play
Is nothing less than of class
Be in, or go
Is all they seek
Yet a solo is just so sweet
No matches, no coping
No riveting no revolt
In its sole
Whole
Even more
A soloist can hear the music of his
Pure bliss
Yet unacceptable to most
As if there was a request to be accepted
I am, the longest of sentences
I will be the shortest
No dogmas, no doctrine
Only latent heat
And permanence of cold
A solo is just solid gold
Ask a question, or a million
Yet the answers are never
For I
For I
For I
Lie down, hear the gurgle of the stream flow
In an uninterrupted conversation
Like Sol, juno, Europa, ceres
Surrounded, surrounding
But for I , just for I