From a Tree Hangs Misery

I know what it is to be alone. Sometimes it's sanctuary. But to be lonely is a feeling that calls for shoveled dirt. Last night was the loneliest night of my life. I sat out on the porch taking what little cool the Philippine night air would give me, thinking-thinking of a painful truth that crashed my mind, a hurting real that threw daggers at my chest. If to sit here is to be miserable I could have just be in East Side. Give no ticket for an International Flight to Agony. Sitting slumped in a chair I looked out across where the streetlights (yes yellow) glowed arrogantly, humming, "Yoooou fuckiiiing loooooser zer zer-zer-zer." Looking past the mess of wires pumping the insults, looking out and beyond the rooftops I thought I could find peace in the eternity of the sky but it was veiled by clouds crayoned by the city electricity, cruelly reflecting the torment in panorama.

And to my left was a tree.

"That's the tree where he hung himself," I whisper.

That's the tree where he hung himself. What did he see in the night, before he put the rope around his neck, alone? What is it to be lonely? Is it to go where only few go and to go there by your own hands? The sky, the world is massive and sneakered insects live life only to die. Know me one less. Know me a lonely man. Know me a dead man.