Regurgitation

All this talk of love, love lost Joys and sorrows - Of inexplicable thoughts Of death; worse, fear of death – Its fine for a solitary afternoon Or a late night when you have The freedom to brood… All you have to do is to regurgitate The stale memories. Though the utter pointlessness of the exercise Hits one like a blast of cold air And one shudders as the blizzard Of loneliness shrouds the self.