A tale of mystery wrapped in paperback,
a sheaf of papers no one dares to read.
The tray of ends, volumes unto the rack;
smoke lingers and the Planet pays no heed.
Water has halved in the bottle and ash
flies off in strange waves from the table top.
They were all stable till I blew a gush –
in disconcert they settle when they drop!
Faint melodies stir in the distance and
I stir not from this rest of mine in Fear;
fear that rose not from the unheard of hand,
but the meaninglessness of being near
to solitariness than company
has me cloaked in this Lonely heresy!
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