We fear nothing but the lonliness,

Standing in the crowd silently,

Listening to the compulsiveness,

The chatter of the hearts of many.

 

Strangers have something we need,

Exciting is the frivolity,

Just once in secret to concede,

The question of the lost of many.

 

Like bees from flower to flower,

We wildly search for comradery,

Frantic at the midnight hour,

The yearning of the zeal of many.

 

Surrounding ourselves with eagerness,

Picking and choosing haphazardly,

Only to regret our wretchedness,

The weakness of the lust of many.

 

A million miles from the one we love,

A distance thought to be plenty,

A separation to make a mess of,

The absence of the good of many.