I, for one,
Identify with the isolation
Of that itinerant writer
Who went searching for his soul
And lost it within himself,
His enthusiasm for life
Siphoned by the despondency
He found in others
Who could not share
In his beatific nature.
I too identify with the inherent sadness
Of realising such an abundance of beauty
While aware that one life isn’t enough
To know everything there is to know.