Absence, what an extravagant guest.

With its ghostly manners and its eerie clothes

Here is a disguise

that alone, I consider

Alas, the problem of solitude

is that it wanders here and there,

always exclude

And so even though I could close my eyelids,

for this curious character to be briefly forgotten,

A question still threaten

What dreams would await me in my restless sleep?

Perhaps, the blurred image of a little girl

Sitting on a lone swing - see how it whirl

Shrill creaking of tired chains

- a dangling complaint

The emptiness under her feet

A void, a nothingness

that does by no means exist

And yet, and yet...

In my chest I feel it

The specter of loneliness

humming its old song.