When alone, a quiet expanse
you can feel the room, the texture, the atmospheric tone,
yet everything is silent,
though the mind is working overtime,
wandering through the various channels of madness,
the ability to lose one’s mind is prevalent
inside a silent storm.
When then we return to the physical reality,
furniture placed evenly,
bookshelves dusty with seeming importance,
a picture to remind ourselves we’re not really
Quiet still would be the hope, the wish, the screaming
exercise in restoring sanity
while the mind relentless reminds
there are places we could go, should go, cannot go
The hours continue their slow count to indicate
lack of time, lack of opportunity to fix, to reach, to go inside
the prevail, high winds and find refuge in the quiet,
inside the eye, in that place we might probably call the soul.
Sitting soft in the afternoon solemn, wandering mind.