They're kicking at my thighs,
With questions coming from all directions,
'Can', 'when' and sometimes 'why',
Talking is happening most everywhere,
A screen's in front of me,
Every second's filled will some distraction,
Unique to this modern society.
No birds are chirping, least what I can hear,
Where's the silence one needs,
To commune with the hole deep in one's heart,
Skepticism's young seed,
Not of all things,
That doubt's an easy find,
That sort that reminds you, 'spite all this noise,
True real'ty's, in fact, a diff'rent kind!
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