The silence is deafening,
Spoken word seems not allowed,
Though we are forming a tiny crowd.
Insular occupations prevail and hail,
The death of a communicative world.
Tired eyes cannot smile,
Or show a care to overthrow,
All the pain felt deep below,
Where secrets old and often new,
Could free them all this terror.
Languished ‘pon the terrace,
Sun shines down to fill this space,
But sets not here on any face,
Caught are they in life’s rat race,
And sense not love I share.
Cold despite this heat,
I feel I’m waking up it seems,
Sold to fear of all these dreams,
And troubles no man should ever face,
I’m left much bereft of hope,
Sitting upon love lane.
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