Solitude

the flesh covers the bone 

and they put a mind 

in there and 

sometimes a soul, 

and the women break 

vases against the walls 

and the men drink too 

much 

and nobody finds the 

one 

but keep 

looking 

crawling in and out 

of beds. 

flesh covers 

the bone and the 

flesh searches 

for more than 

flesh. 

there's no chance 

at all: 

we are all trapped 

by a singular fate. 

nobody ever finds 

the one. 

the city dumps fill 

the junkyards fill

the madhouses fill

the hospitals fill

the graveyards fill 

nothing else 

fills. 

Charles Bukowski