Alone...Solitude...Still
Alone.
Sitting in a bus stop at dusk.
Detached from the noisy hub-bub
of the city and its task.
A heavy air smells like trash and rust
while you dream on being alone.
The active street ignores its hustle
and cause your feet to seem in the way
of all the bustle.
Somewhere a radio plays violins
and you recall the tune.
It makes you think of
Solitude.
That breathless island which quiets inside.
A temple for intuitive grace…ful
secret of hope and a nook to hide.
Twilight in the dawn you stretch a yawn
and take another toke of simplicity.
“It’s not so easy being wretched,”
cries a little person who dwells within you.
“The city likes to kill… Shuu! Listen!
I think I hear,”
Still.
Like some desert sunset.
Such silence almost hurts the ear
and captures the wit. You seem to forget
the wicked pain and fear,
and dusty crowded looks from passersby.
“There’s no motion!” “How odd it feels
to have still,” says the little person
with a sigh. “But I must remember,
there’s a bus to ride.”
© Rothya James Patterson
Poems
