disenchanted

roaring-twenties-picture-3I often stop and think
standing in a crowd,
when nothing seems in sync,
everything, just loud.

When everyone is talking—
nothing’s being said.
When everyone is moving—
pieces being led.

When light is eery shading:
scenes are black and white.
Familiar faces fading;
distant, lost from sight.

Yup, I don’t belong here,
anyone can see.
If only . . . Never mind, dear.
Time for me to flee.