Connective Tissue

Isolation is not for the idiot,

broken slabs of sorrow

moistened by the rain,

no sign of the suns

needle point breakthrough

a puncture

to a raised palm,

alone disguising himself

in clothes so vanilla plain

he becomes in indistinct,

until another comes

with words used

as a way

to reach ears

not wanting to listen,

and a soft touch

on a fallen shoulder