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.