The misty quiet roars delicately.
Lonely as a ghost in a room
full of living people.
Crowded as a room
empty of paintings.
Crackle, crackle
in my ear.
Unbeknownst to you,
I am a writer,
a poet,
a madwoman.
But you rush past,
oblivious to the creeping
beauty all around.
Ears stuffed with money,
or lost time,
if that is what you prefer.
I am a wanderer around purpose-
seekers,
A Butterfly among ants.
I know what my destination is,
the question is,
do you know yours?
Stray thoughts,
flit through,
never to be seen again.
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