Outermost, A Man Alone Poem by S. R. Lavin

I am, outermost, a man. Here
the subtle choreography
of solitude
on a lonely stretch of sand,
a coastline, forbidding cloud-cover,
flashes of electrical brilliance,
and southward, the sea.

To live without love
is not to live.

Omnipotent and overwhelmed,
the truth in each utterance,
each breath, each heartbeat.

The days of loving you
with quiet poise.
I cannot say
more.

We live as delicate
cameos fashioned from shell,
portraitures of beauty,
mirrors of our flesh.

Someday came and went.

I am making progress.
I am forging ahead.

I am headed home.
Strange to say it
because
I have no home
separate from
these words.