Amid silence of thought, Casual they seem. I sense that I ought Not disturb them, So I sit; And I too am lonely. Amid uninvolved people Without an end in aim. Murmur they must Because boredom is a kingdom, So I sit separate; And I too am bored. They are a silent front of contemplation While expressing inwardly things No one can hear Or wants to know; I throw my soul to them And they too are unfeeling. Criticism pierces; Evaluations are biased; No one is expected To help, just sit and stagnate together— While apart. I try to cry out in Sarcasm, wit— A defense, yes, Against the pressure Of noise hidden in the Soul of the contemplative. Noise is crude, barbaric; Noise hurts. Beastly blasts of a hampered reality Is noise— Sluggish movement. I want to be noisy.
1969