Familiarity bleeds solitude

A poem about going out and coming home dissatisfied and disillusioned.

You always seemed so familiar
slaking away your salvation,

because it hurt not to.
Because it was something to do.

A burnt-out cigarette
lying among the fronds of the ferns

hidden and taboo,
brave despite the darkening skies:

Hurting so much to be alone.
Extinguished after the lights

Of another party receded
like the afterthought of an

ambulance, racing by in a
bleeding solitude to

some nameless drunk in
some dead-end place

causing some nameless pain
to be remembered namelessly by

some nameless no-one.