Monday, 24 November 2008

Trapped. Talk, Talk.

Many limited interactions
Processing the noises surrounding
An all-too-familiar feeling of isolation.
The sounds mean nothing when I hear.
Shapes manoeuvre around my being,
Almost desperately it appears
The terror of being near this lonely husk
Is in itself
Too much for whispers to handle.
The sum becomes the reverse of the parts,
They chatter and dissolve.
But there is variety, and goodwill at times.
Or so I perceive through a narrow and cracking lens.
One day to purchase an improvement over this.
A goal that may decide the worth of believing
When factors coincide.

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