Wind is blowing, sun is glaring
I can’t help but dwell
On trivial things but trivial things
Become my personal hell
I sit in hills of great expanse
With Wichita and Osage names
Where purity, as if by chance
Has found the land which no man tames
But in my room, no peace I find
For headphones are a rarity
I shan’t obtain a peace of mind
Or moment of some clarity
I fear that the proclivity
Of quietude is very slight
And audial activity
Continues well into the night
But through this small adversity
I still convince myself to write
I leave the room for some escape
But as things will oft befall
My aft retreat, a chaos drape
Enfolds from screens upon the wall
My heart betrayed by my own face
Of falseness of all things serene
Resigned to live inside this place
I fill myself with nicotine
A comfort brief, but in this place
It’s all that life can mean