For the road often wanders
as feet are want to do
while valuable thoughts it squanders
what 'long the road we knew
I've long grappled with my introversion and its debilitating charm that strangles me, comforts me, tethers and kindles my anger aflame. It asphyxiates and cossets in equal portions, a mercurial dichotomy that oft leaves me incensed or blessedly at ease. Is it only or is it lonely? Not lonely, I suspect, for my companions are many. No, it is more diabolical, an infernal poison seeping into my joints with a casual familiarity and a caustic finale.
Loneliness? No. I am a dragon, sitting atop a hoarded mountain of gold, capable of shifting into human form. Entering town, I stare agog at the destitution, the starvation and beggary. I ponderously place a half-penny into a mendicant's empty cup, trundling along the city square. I speak with them, dine with them, and subsequently align with their thoughts, falling desperately in love with them. Yet I cannot share what I hoard alone.
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