The Lesser Poem by Christine Austin Cole

Your loneliness does not impress me -
a timid needle, a careless touch -
it is far too simple a thing.
You have yet to meet the storm,
yet to be swallowed by it,
yet to know a darkness
from the inside out.

You are a poet only by first
definition; the lesser,
the least flamingo.
There remains an ache unknown -
a dramatic undoing -
waiting to be discovered.
You are, perhaps,
the nail hole
but not the bloody, torn
flesh encircling it.

And I?

I am the pathetic remains
of what was once human enough
to be indescribably impacted
by your pain.
Only for having confessed
myself a mere ghost
does the truth that I've
lingered here for years,
unclaimed,
reveal itself.

So, no -
your loneliness does not impress me;
for my own is an unspeakable beast
with a soul that was, once,
my own.