I once stood in the middle of a copse of familiar faces colored beatitude through casual kinships, seen from a lens angled just right, but only if you watch it under filtered light. The leaves and the branches gossiped away into the heavens, Same ol’ babble on antediluvian matters, Sure, there was a parroting of laughter somewhere in the back of my throat but it sounded, as usual, vaporous. Always finding itself stranded midway before it could reach the corner of my eyes to make valleys of joy between ridges of mischief. And in this thicket of flourish, there was never a reprieve from the searing harshness of solitude’s heat. No, all I found was a dolorous wrench stuck somewhere in the pit of my essence, And though for a while, I did try to emulate, to be indistinguishable from the grove, wearing identical foliage, I thought I could fit in creating the pretense of living, With seemingly joyous stalks And serenity dripping from the bark, but my trunk was twisted, alas! And my roots, bullheaded since birth, were always averse to perfection’s deformity So they let go of the soil rich in conventionality, Purposefully extracting my Whole, they rearranged the mentality. Having left that prescribed median Now I flew off the tangent into the deviance to gradually find where I truly come alive And as it turns out, it’s in isolation where I thrive.