Again, yet again I come. And where I go is no matter; all is the same ruining, all the same fleeting joys against the long established process of grief.

I am alone, and not alone, each of us his own, we are all in this together. How trite, you say. How true, I say. And they'd be no need to talk if we weren't so busy being clever, and tried more to be plain honest.

To whatever hell you conjure up for it! We are our own problem, and a burden to others. And each of us come and go again, yet again.

[Note: The above post relates to a series of postings made from June to July 2010 on a long poem I wrote long ago entitled Wails Of The Wraecca. "Wraecca" is an Anglo-Saxon word for an outcast, an exile, a wanderer. The poem's personae came to this state of existence by being rejected by his community for some crime against his liege lord, his protector. More often than not, this crime was disloyalty to his lord. Thus, no longer part of his clan, he was sent far from his kin. He would face the brutal privations of the wilderness alone. It is thus, that in the earth, we are all "wraeccas."]

Content (c) 2008-2011 Philip Milito.