Stillness

This is where you retreat,
your quiet soul in full display
like a sentry,
stock still amidst the strangeness
of a world gone frantic
with fear and anger and hunger
for things not quite describable,
not quite in reach, the elusive more,
the impossible perfection,
Madison Avenue’s victory all around you,
the need for things, for image,
for shiny things, for the envy,
the admiration, the lust of neighbors you hardly know,
for every moment filled, making certain
there is no chance to discover
the most beautiful treasure of all,

You breathe
as cars pass you by,
as lovers and strangers look past you
too busy to listen
past the first sound byte
that sets their mind revving
and sends them on their own
diatribe,
as others shake their whirling minds
at your insistence for stillness.

But this is where your child lives,
hidden deep in an age of action,
in a place where sitting still is punishment,
not reward,
where curiosity is out there,
or so the mysterious they say,
although you, finally,
with your grey hair and mottled skin
have finally discovered
that all the answers worth knowing
are within.

About this poem. 

I am an introvert by nature. Sociable, but refreshed and restored in silence. It is where I find my truth, and my power.

Tom