Sitting absolutely alone
In a round room of riled people
My brain feeling dry as a bone
Staring at a silent steeple
They’re sleeping upon a hill there
In a shadowed silent graveyard
Still, just resting, lacking a care
The smooth granite stones standing guard
Charming clouds floating close above
The sounds of calling gulls and surf
No competing or push and shove
In a plot of well trimmed green turf
Safely absent from the rat race
The constructed reality
With make-believe smiles on each face
Sleeping through perpetuity
A seldom soft fleeting footfall
Leaving intermittent flowers
Stopping for a tad to recall
Then receding like spring showers
Smiling, I return to the room
The backbiting and bickering
Critical deadlines that still loom
People fretting about nothing
© Copyrights G. Jones 2007
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