In the Urge of a Solitary Life

Where the pores of the skin
tremble in a sudden shiver,
I gaze without reason
at strange devotions.
On those harsh, unyielding days
feelings drift in and out of dreams.
If lustful imaginings are to become truth,
someone insolent to the body
will speak of love—
the fevered moment when passion falls—
will it not expose the fraud?
Let that day come
when, in self-pleasure,
one clings to the urgency
of a solitary life.
 
In our darkness,
our servitude,
a lone figure rises from the shadows—
at the crossroads of Freudian awareness—
forgetting the fears of kin,
walking beast-like and alone,
seeking an undefined fate.
In this mind,
strange dreams come and go;
a voiceless decay,
dreams like the wind of a wing
tending to the skin,
filling the pores
with an astonishing thrill.
In air where feeling does not exist,
the stunned intoxication of machinery—
our destiny is the mechanism
we carry along,
in the relentless urge
of a solitary life.