Echoes in the Crowd: A Lament of Disconnected Belonging

Echoes in the Crowd: A Lament of Disconnected Belonging

I
Amidst the clamour of familiar tones,
Where mirth and meals build fragile thrones,
I sit — a misfit soul in masquerade,
A shadow cast that slowly fades.

II
They toast to dreams, they trade their schemes,
But none decode my silent screams.
Their words — all polish, none with depth,
My spirit starves while they catch breath.

III
The bonds once gold have turned to dust,
Conversations laced with brittle crust.
An orchestra with strings untuned,
Where I — the lone cello — play to the moon.

IV
No thread connects, no heart aligns,
The crowd is loud, but the soul declines.
Each smile, a veil; each cheer, a play
And I, a spectre, drift away.

V
Yet in the quiet corners of despair,
Nature unfolds its silent prayer.
The trembling leaf, the scented rain,
The evening breeze — they soothe my pain.

VI
Books now speak what lips ignore,
Their wisdom knocks a deeper door.
Their metaphors, my midnight friends,
Their margins where my anguish bends.

VII
Music becomes my saving shore,
Each note — a balm, each pause — a cure.
From aching strings to whispered flute,
It mends the wounds that words pollute.

VIII
Prayer no longer begs aloud—
It rises still through inner cloud.
A conversation not with saints,
But with the silence that never faints.

IX
Like Rumi’s reed, I cry in tune,
Yearning not for crowds, but moon.
The clutter fades, the essence stays,
As solitude refines my ways.

X
I walk no more with seeking feet,
But tread the path where sages meet.
In solitude, the soul finds ground—
A quiet place, profound, unbound.

XI
Let them revel in borrowed grace,
Chasing joy in fleeting pace.
My symphony begins at dusk—
Where shadows dance, and thoughts combust.

XII
No longer drowned in human din,
I find the voice that speaks within.
And in this sacred, silent pact,
The soul regains what life had lacked.