Touched

 

In this gallery of quiet

Nobody needs to shout.

That which is worthy of notice

Can be heard,

There are no echoes to follow

And no confusion either.

 

Here, I have often found me

Searching for me

In a multitude of those

That do not exist,

The formless ethereal beings

The products of my mind.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world

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