Solitude

There was a man who lived on a house, on a hill,

and everyday that man who lived in the house, on the hill,

walked outside and gazed down at the houses, in the valley.

"Why, oh why, how I do hate those houses in the valley,

those people in those houses, down in the valley.

And how I despise this house on this hill that is empty."

So, the man sat on his chair, on his porch, at his house, on the hill,

and grumbled about the world below and his world above.

If only they would visit him, he was sure everything would be better.

But how would people visit someone no one knew existed?

It was the emptiness that he wished to solve,

but he could not move himself to leave his house on his hill.

"I cannot leave the hill, for the houses in the valley

were surely overwhelm me."

So, the man sat on his chair, on his porch, at his house, on the hill,

and wished for just one person from the world below to visit his world above.

But they never did, and the man went on hating his empty world above

and the crowded world below.

Many years passed as the porch began to sag under the weight of rot,

as did the man who everyday walked out outside to look at the valley below.

"My life has almost been spent, and what do I have to show?

The valley is still writhing and brimming with lives below while my hill stands empty and desolate."

Then, with a sigh, the man sat in his chair, on his porch, at his house, on the hill,

closed his eyes where valley and hill disappeared,

and dreamt of lost dreams of a beautiful, smiling woman and laughing children

as everything faded away.