Like an abandoned cactus in the desert,
That stands alone, guarded and hostile,
In constant struggle fazing all hurt feelings,
Though confined with an instinctive sense of things
The dark clouds seem to represent,
The reflection, a mirror of the dark soul,
The rhythm flowing harshly in constant quest,
Of a touch, a smile, a cold comfort,
The lonely heart reproaches from its trance,
Of the pleasant possibility of salvage,
From a world of solitude almost suffocating,
Of utter despair and bleak sadness
The lonely heart comforts all the senses,
It perishes all forlorn thoughts,
That just maybe in the tropical paradise,
Rests a safe assumption of a possibility of repair,
To the connection severely damaged.
Aston kamunde 