Loneliness is a cold flame that flays the soul. When you pass through the fire you know things then no mortal man should know. You're Lazarus come from the dead living among men with your death still on you, knowing too much to ever have a friend, a broken building with lights left on sagged against the sky, mortally wounded. You'd thought that by enduring You'd come to peace and reconciliation, warm hands. You come instead to a place where no one's been and stand in the starless night hands to your face and no strength left, lost from man and unknown to God and no way back. It's then you know you must make a place for yourself of dry bones and anguish, wring light from the substance of your will and hope from the bone-dry earth. It's then you know that the only chance you stand is to forge a star out of your living breath.
You can find this poem in Albert Huffstickler’s phenomenon book — Why I Write in Coffee Houses and Diners: Selected Poems
This hits deep.
This man was my contemporary three decades ago when I started getting my poems published by the micro presses. I miss him. He was a rare find. Thank you for giving him the spotlight today.