we all on separate 
stages in the hurt,
recite soliloquies
to empty theaters,
only our echoes as
an audience. the pit
of loneliness,
ochestraless,
almost an illusion
under colored spotlight,
is silent as a reedless
saxophone.  our songs
of pathos bittersweet
moaned into sleepless
acts with dropped lines
and missed cues.
front and center in our
anguish, we forget
about our soul, as its
eddies swirl and ebb
from one to one
each and all.
to be left alone
cannot be done,
though our pain
would cast it so,
it’s why the Bard
called his play
house the globe