The scenery flies past outside the glass.
The images move, too; they hurry past
And I, I feel as if this space time rip
With effortless devising made, this trip
Without exposure to the wind and dust—
It all will fade; and when I reach (so fast?)
In boredom, random papers I do flip
With naught a sense of travel. Take a sip
Of water, says the guide, and stretch yourself.
If I am tired, it is because of this:
I did not walk, I did not kiss the breeze,
But spent my time boring my inner self.
I heard much speech of fakeness, fluff and fleece;
A wasted time, a memory to be shelved.