The Madness of Crowds

The talk,
        the talk goes on forever;

unfocused, the tumult of noises sounds
like the symptom of a fever.

I pick out one voice after another,
disappointed as each
seems to me to be a foreign language
I cannot speak.

It’s the silent ones I can understand,
shrouded in loneliness or pensive thoughts
        or maybe just nothing at all.

Are they, like me,
        bewildered
                as to how the past
can blend
from Spring into Winter
so swiftly?

As the noise, the
        noise goes on forever…

Isolation

If I started to scream,
would you believe it came
from both pleasure & pain;

can you believe
               in anything
at all?

But that question came to me in a dream
                so ignore it:

because
                this isn't poetry

just another useless eulogy for

                isolation.