Being One

The shapes, they pass before me,
Visions to my blurred sight.
They look but do not see;
Move, but with no purpose.
All colors, all shades, every disposition;
They walk right through me,
Miss my meaning,
Rejoice in my defeat.
Their favorite pastime, dominates
My thoughts.
Why do they treat me so?
Why can I not see them clearly?
Many
We are,
Meant to be
One,
But not together.
Separate, like ghosts in the wind.
The sweet, rushing air,
The sun against my face.
A voice amongst the breeze, it whispers:
Stop.
Just be still.

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