The Quiet

There is little quiet

21st century life

Is all

Hustle, bustle and speed

We are enveloped.

 

Why then do

So many seem alone?

Suffering

As though

The quiet

Of the inside

A bane, an open wound.

We suffer

Travails faced

Exposed in our

Sanctum of self.

 

It is a jail

Where mind dithers;

Imaginings flout

The senses.

 

 

 

It is the fountains

Of our relationships

That succor self.

Rivulets of caring

One for another.

 

If we are to face

The din of destiny

We must hold hands.

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