Loners Die Alone Poem by Learnmore Edwin Zvada

When a rainy day dies, together with a few unfortunate souls,
I ponder at the notion of painting a colorful picture to put up in the small room in which my body will rest someday
Its a picturesque vision of life or lack thereof that does seem to linger too long in my eyes,
Like a distant mirage...with the loneliness of a hog dying in labor
But then I realize, I'm no painter and a few drawings I have in my studio are just but an illusion illustrated into a fading inartistic shade
Still my words die alone, without the back-patting of a bemused audience,
At that wretched distance upon which they forage
Still I walk the mile, forever tailing everything related to fame
And I realize, if fame belonged with me, I wouldn't take it to my grave
How violent fame is, how cruel are the paths toward its mansions and castles
I remain alone, without honor, except within verse and prose
The world smiles on them that know how to be seen,
How can I remain a part of this voice;
This, a covetous congregation that only seeks fortune upon fortune?
So I settle my soul on a quieter whim,
As I type away a few notes on a map to the closet that sometimes enshrouds my lines
I know that I'm to find my ticket to sanity someday and the funfair that exhibits cold poems like mine does promise such
Soon enough, I gather, the world with its agricultures will single me out as a weed
But that wont defuse my freewheeling
I rhyme like a winter song, my lyrics form like a mistresss desire for a man
My typing dances into gay letters that constantly rearrange into romantic phrases,
Syncing emotional words with a lullaby's undertones
Sleep catches up with me, finally: the everlasting slumber that ensnared mum,
And I too am to be a part of this shadow-chasing marathon
Loners die alone, washed up onto the shores of a solitary island where fame holds no sway