alone with everybody.

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.

c.b.