The Old Way 1

This is poem number one in a series of six, the rest of which which I’ll post through the coming week.

001

The Old Way 1

 

I often think the modern world feels like a party,

In a huge room filled with loud and boorish guests

Monopolising the conversation and jabbing fingers

And shouting each other down.

Me? I’m the one hiding in the kitchen;

I’m the one holding a drink and leaning against the wall,

Looking fed up with the whole wretched thing.

 

And just to continue with this analogy,

I feel as though I’ve tried the side door

And found it unlocked and,

With a quick glance around to see if anyone’s watching,

I’ve slipped out, away from the modern world.