Edgar Degas

Barreling through the air, Marilyn with the grace of Eden

One, separate from nature, separated from the world

Across the room, dancers being hurled

We must catch each other, before we unfurl

Isolation, finds me, in a studio collapsing with bodies

Phantasms abound around, as I shrug them to stay

Onlookers coax me to continue, I know not why

Music lies dormant in their hearts, yet with hands they play

My instruments provide cover for the dancer’s mistakes

A stance of confidence and uncertainty stains the atmosphere

Diving unwieldy in my work, the only elixir for heart aches

Until I reach the summit, I am where Atlas nears

Isolation, finds me, in a home not my own

With an orchestra in the background, in the forefront I’m alone

I am despair cover to cover, I am Ethan Frome  

Planting deeply, sweetly, these seeds I have sewn

Isolation, finds me, in the winter’s frozen tendrils

No comfort, in the ashy Absinthe drinkers voice

Alone in the room with the well suited scoundrels

Heretics of genetics, they’re no sons of Gregor Mendel

Isolation finds me in the fields where horses trot

Don’t speak on idle talk, until we spot the coarsest fox

Full gallop, forget my fashion faux pas

Get the skin, attached to four paws, with torn claws

Isolation finds me in New Orleans, a cotton office

busy with pomp and self-importance.

The newspaper consumes my attention with daily fracas

Horror stories clog my pores, my eyes are morgue vents

The stories serve a variety of purposes

A connection with society, to avoid what worthless is

In a world where certainty is godliness, I’m certainless

But these are the thoughts worth worshiping

Isolation finds me in a picture all my own

A self-portrait where youth exists, did I hold cynicism then so firmly?

A soft hat, a snug orange collar, who am I to question how it was sewn

Soft eyes, a smug smile, a smudge wild, beard unwieldy and curly

Who are we, when isolation finds us

Who are we, when it departs

Who are we, when it’s everywhere

And the soil and soul begin to spar

The feelings can be sparse and few between

Or temporarily turned terminal

Find solace in the gifts of you

Endlessly follow all thoughts mercurial  

Michael Carney