Countless hours we spend,
reading
between the lines hiding,
lying in lonely-beds
or sitting instead,
staring at the lit
techno-screens,
most of the night
& long into the day.

We find what remains,
is what will always be.
It will be the silence,
the loneliness that
keeps us at bay,
from outside-play,
and perhaps, maybe
from truly being.

But regardless
of despair,
we will always spill,
dribble,
scribble
our continuous
verse and rhyme,
our heartful-words,
it is our way,
the way of odists.