I.
I glide past them, shadows in the morning mist,
ghosts behind glass panes,
drifting together in a silent ballet of existence.
Fleeting glimpses,
the unspoken pact of anonymity.
Eyes that meet yet never connect,
lost in the thrumming pulse of the city.
II.
Here, in this crowded labyrinth of souls,
we inhabit the same heartbeat,
yet the distance stretches like the horizon,
and we remain echoes,
fragmented reflections in a fractured mirror.
III.
What tales weave through their minds,
stories that could unravel the threads of my own world –
perhaps they return to laughter,
or to the heavy weight of solitude,
wondering if the universe even pauses
to acknowledge their breath.
IV.
Yet tomorrow, like a whispered secret,
I will drift past again,
each familiar face unmoored,
a ripple in the stream of everyday life,
forever unnamed,
ghosts passing through the daylight,
each leaving a trace –
a question unanswered,
a connection unmade.
V.
But then –
one stops.
Our eyes meet.
A second too long.
And suddenly,
they have a name.
-
Author:
The Skeptic (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: September 2nd, 2026 10:17
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 8
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments2
A great write of the social disconnect that occurs in many even amongst crowds. Nicely done my friend
Thank you, my friend. I appreciate it!
My pleasure
What a moving poem, delusions. The city feels filled with lives brushing past one another without contact, then one sustained glance opens a doorway through the distance...subtle, compassionate, and powerfully resolved. Excellent work, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Thank you, my friend!
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