Reading
A poem about strangers. One I wrote up yesterday, but didn't show until now. Not that I needed to edit or anything. It's mostly free verse although I really seem to like using repetition in this one.
the thought from human mind
the voice from human mouth
the movement from human step
which the foundation derives.
I sit, and watch
as they pass, indifferent
to the people they do not know
whose hate is bred in life and politics
always, for sickening fame.
Public is not really public,
Views are not really views.
Truth, is not really truth.
At least, not most of the time.
It is always these times in that we realise
just how much we keep what we are,
who we are
hidden from all in sight.