Friday, 14 October 2016

Beneath the crowd

This is a poem for some who prefer solitude and for others who question solitude.

Through the alleys of bodies,
Bound like raucous hedgerows,
Pitches screech;
For a circadian convulsion.
Talk in air is elixir, they deem,
Nay, I say, not to me.
Rare so not, the heads remark,
An overture to blend,they bring.
Shimmering, it is, for a wee minute,
But never winsome,that is to me.
Gleeful horde, cloy me though,
Splintering within, the ease and order.
The matter here, smooth it may seem,
Still, hard to act, for the soul underneath.
Shroud me not in voices and cry,
For, I see no joy in large company.
A lull so deep, is what I ask.
One sparse request,to all around me.

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