Journey

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.

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