How desperate

How desperate is the solitude
of a cowered act.
I couldn’t stop her.
The solipsism blinded me
and forgot how it feels to be human.
I condemned myself to wander
through the ghastly undergrowth
where the sentences I write bleed
and the words plough under
my nails like splinters.
I didn’t stop her.
I can’t stop feeling her torment as
I hold my breath and hear the strident laughter of that old man of
haggard face and bowler hat.
I think about her youth and beauty
in a glorious nighty serenade
and it turns excruciating.
Now, I know that cowardice is a long fall.