Solitude is gratitude for silence filled with serenity.

gently, I devour
the music that you play

the strumming and the sway,
the things you can convey

subtle, but the power
of the songs, the silent way

you make the unsaid there
and it becomes

real, authentic, ours.

When you're cloaked in a pall of gloom
Life seems bland with colours gone
The little flower in her humble bloom
Will say she's there you aren't alone.

the strummer violently strums,
a glassy stare, and makes it into a graceful nell.
vibrations in the air tell me what she is saying in silence.

there is a scene in my day
when I leave the wretched white-walled windowless building
and a blast of the freshest air hits me,
and it feels like my first breath in hours.
The sun is a glory on my skin,
and I take off my jacket to feel the air on my arms
for the first time in a season.

do they know of the uproar,
the unrest,
the tirelessly shifting waves
of wind against the window?
So harsh, all through the day,
but it is a severity I can feel safe by,
watching the gusts and hearing the voices
while, in this alcove, everything is still.