Poem: The isolationists nightmare

Walls drenched in the sweat of yesteryear.

I hate many.

I love in particular.

Birds tweet of the consuming doldrums of today.

To be a man.

Is a burden.

To have a soul.

Is encumbering.

I own a past long undisclosed.

Now my past speaks to me with flirtatious intrigue. 

Hypocrisy is a hard embrace.

When you stare at the edge of loneliness.

I like her.

Ending it with kisses.

Just Starting to resume.

I do yearn for the embrace held harshly from me.

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