A strange kind of lonely


To be stood in such a place

you have to come from alone.

It’s not an edge, I never tumble

or a ledge, I never fumble.

A border

over which I step.

Sometimes It’s like a dance,

a waltz-like romance.

But alone.

Even God’s not there

and though I stare

I see nothing I want to,

no choice, no free will

only a knowing to never

or a what will be forever,

don’t waste the dawn sunny Jim

was sung somewhere else.

Why does the peony look sad

maybe it feels bad

it can’t bring good fortune

a fraud.

I step back from madness,

into a strange kind of lonely


  1. You have manage to capture this feeling perfectly in your poem Nigel. Those last two lines sum up the fine line between madness and a strange sanity. Is this a state that drives us to poetry?

    Liked by 1 person

    1. It is intriguing Davy, hate to harp on about it but my meds have such an impact in terms of lucid and vivid dreaming/hallucination anxiety/depression that I feel you’re correct. At times such as this p.m I literally can’t stop the ideas and images .I’ve written 12 in the last hour and throw most away simply because there are so many. Tomorrow I’ll probably be becalmed. Strange stuff.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Again you’re right Davy about a gift, though I see it as safety valve, a way of mastering the demon’s. In fairness I’ve always had a mind that won’t still hence a lot of my words are about peak experiences, finding peace, philosophy and spiritual interests.

        Liked by 1 person

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