One Dead Poet And Un Philosphe Mort Poem by Heidi K. Haskell

Marvell said that paradise
Was best enjoyed alone
Away from other human beans
Away from telephones.
Although la Bruyere agreed
A cup of chocolat chaud
When sipped alone on winter night
Still is, indeed, très beau,
He, that worthy Frenchman,
Hoped sooner to confess
That Sorrow's evil henchman
Was Demon Loneliness.
This thing inspired the caveman
To paint upon a wall,
To drive away the darkness
That seeks to take us all.
Its mouth a yawning chasm,
A hunger deep and wide;
Its movements all a spasm,
An endless spanning stride.
Fingers that seek to smother.
When prodigal returns,
Alas to be the brother.
Rage there within him burns.
As all rejoice to see the one
Who wandered far, come home,
They turn and do not see the boy
Who chose to stay, not roam.
He thinks self just as worthy
The spotlight to receive.
He calls to Pops, 'Hey. Sir, thee
Forgot me! ' and he grieves.
And as he whines unto his sire
His self-pity grows thick, and
Wallowing in his lonely mire
He sinks, as into quicksand.
'So, ' the Frenchman says to Marvell
'The TV and telephone
Came from Man's ever-present need
To not be all alone
As long as others turn aside,
You must confess to this:
To be alone in this world wide
Is not such perfect bliss.'
'Alas, my man, ' says Marvell
'I see your view is fair.
You are so right, and I am wrong -
Let's go get some éclairs.'