The Listener Underground Poem by Patrick Czyz

My house is a foreign home
Because souls find it darksome.
Hoping to hearten my place of dolor,
They divulge old stories of lively color.
They try without purpose.
All must remain morose.

My realm is utterly and solely lorn
Because souls are by silence torn.
Seeking to find friendship there,
They reach out their arms everywhere.
They will indeed toil.
All is compressed by soil.

My household is calm with lull
Because souls find it too peaceful.
Wanting to liven my stillness to comity,
They try to arise with life to amity.
Try and try again as they might.
They are buried under this plight.