Introspection Poem by John Yaws

Lonely is another word, for being on your own-
Even in a crowded room, I find myself alone.
Things in common, are not found- with anyone I meet.
I'm in a world, all my own, as I go down the street.

Lonely isn't quite the curse, that it's made out to be-
Not bonding with another, is one way of being free.
If I should live, and die alone, that doesn't seem so bad-
At least no one will cry for me, I will leave nobody sad.

I guess I've always been this way, I watch the wild geese fly-
And envy them their freedom, as they go winging by.
I saw a lot of country, when I was young and free-
From the Arizona desert, to the beach of Waikiki.

The soaring Rocky Mountains, the waving fields of grain-
The dust storms in West Texas, and the Northwest' fog and rain.
Now as I grow older, and time has etched my face-
My bones are old and brittle, I have almost run my race-

Looking back, I wonder, just where the years have gone?
I think of past decisions: were they right, or wrong?
Where and how I leave this place, I really do not care…
When I complete my journey, Death will meet me there.