SWALLOWED

The silence
visiting like a haunting banshee
burns from the crippling knowing
no one is there to hear your heartbeat
when tears flow without another hand to care
and all the world feels like strangers.

It is to be swallowed in a hole
where this isn't the light of love
shining on tomorrow
that will show
any companion's arm waiting
for giving a single hug or embrace
which shouts
somebody knows your name.

Most of all,
comes that image of a deserted grave
with a marker having your name,
lacking even one flower of grief or mourners
to remember you ever lived.

Drowning in a social cesspool
of an outcast's toxic waste
is never solitude's haven
as much as solitary confinement.