Only the Lonely

Through countless, endless, spaceless places,
One has placed us in the cases
of time and will, though never ageless,
to search and find or find and fall.

There cannot be so soon a sample
of created things, with minds less ample,
offending reason as if to trample
the dance, that is, creation’s ball.

To those who stand with distant gazes,
our plight looks more like waltz in hazes
open to the more mortal phases
that bring us all within the pall.

That we seem lost amidst the cosmos
often enters thoughts like most ghosts,
over the boundaries founded and posts
towering stakes of claim to call.

Tis’ but a fact though, we may yet quell it,
our view from inside this urgent pellet
only seems to find its zealot
taken in the minds of those who stall.

Together all, in voiceless wonder,
overtaking the boundless blunder,
opine which we cannot mutter:
that we are safe within the hall.

The hall of all the great advances
of the feeble and the framed romances
ousted by those great men’s stances
that reveal the thrill of all enthralled.