Just a poem

I look for letters that have never been written
I wait for friends who will never call
I beg forgiveness for sins uncommitted
I reach for your weak hand when I fall
I listen for your voice on the phone
All I get is the dialling tone

If I was Robinson Crusoe at least I would have something to do, so.
A beast to trap or a palace to build, with no one around to send me ill-will
but I have the clothes upon my back and an animal trap,
because I continue to work to the bone, to make myself some shack of a home,
till the day when I will no longer be alone

But here, it's all words and games, running in my mind with names
of those who have gone before, and those who are here who are here no more
and those who may run in through this open door, of those I cannot be too sure.

Part two (reversi)

I write letters that I never send
I have friends who I never call on
I forgive your sins committed
I reject your strong hand when I'm up
I plug my ears when I hear your voice on the phone
There is no dialling tone

I'm not Robinsoe Crusoe, therefore I have nothing to do, no
No beast to trap nor palace to build, with someone about to give me a thrill
yet I have no clothes upon my back, no animal trap
I don't work myself to the bone, nor make myself some shack of a home
til the night when I will be alone

But there it's all silence and stillness, outside nameless time
of these who are yet to come, and those who are still here
and thee who walked out of this open door, of that I can be sure