Sitting absolutely alone
In a round room of riled people
My brain feeling dry as a bone
Staring at a silent steeple

They’re sleeping upon a hill there
In a shadowed silent graveyard
Still, just resting, lacking a care
The smooth granite stones standing guard

Charming clouds floating close above
The sounds of calling gulls and surf
No competing or push and shove
In a plot of well trimmed green turf

Safely absent from the rat race
With constructed reality
With make believe smiles on each face
Sleeping through perpetuity

A seldom soft fleeting footfall
Leaving intermittent flowers
Stopping for a tad to recall
Then receding like spring showers

Smiling, I return to the room
The backbiting and bickering
Critical deadlines that still loom
People fretting about nothing

© Copyrights G. Jones 2007