It is the loner's duty to be miserable
If not him, who else to be so?
Winds strike his face, whipping,
But wince he does not
As he stands tall, firm,
Like a tower reaching to the heavens,
Grasping, stretching,
Sensing a high power not there.
Or perhaps the opposite?
Of course the pessimist, this loner be.
One who feels not the pain
Of God's airy fist against his face
On a dark, stormy night.
One oblivious to the razor cuts of rain
Pounding relentlessly towards
His half-grown silvering beard
And ungloved, unmasked, unprotected hands.
Perhaps this is a punishment
For pushing life itself away
And letting the puzzles of his career
Devour him whole until nothing
But an empty shell of a sarcastic,
Cruel genius doctor is left over.
Though life does not ignore him, mind.
It rests before his eyes, tempting,
Showing what may be, what could have been,
And the past occurrences,
Impossible to change.
This lonely religion-deprived man
Stands strong and stubborn,
Occasionally dipping a toe
Into the pond, but hardly ever diving in.
This pond, created by the tears,
Sweat, and love of many,
Made to move by the ever powerful wind,
Is sometimes temperamental.
At times this pond barely tickles
The tips of feet, while still more often
It rears its head and bites
At the thighs of those who perch
By the water's edge, trying desperately
To draw them under.
But why should this miserable man
Bow before the howling wind of religion?
He has experienced the dangers
Of swimming in the deep end;
Though exciting it seems
At first glance, you run the risk
Or drowning, and never again
Arising to the surface.
This man arose, but suffers through a curse,
A curse of remaining wet and cold,
And no matter the blankets
He surrounds himself with,
He can never appease his ailment.
Many a time this man's friends
Crowd around him,
Sharing their body heat,
Reminding him they are there
(Since he sometimes forgets this fact).
And on occasion, these allies will join
This man for a swim, and maybe,
Just maybe, this man is not
As alone as he appears to be.