Cry

I’ve heard the whispering beyond the tinkling of glass bottles in light hearted hands.
I’ve heard the pleading past the smiles of bubbling champagne
But so hard does the tinkling try to mask the face of the those it works to cover.
The whispering that betrays the whisperer of their need to be in a different land.
Past the tinkling glass is their grief and sorrow to discover.
The voices there just beyond the distractions are calling
They long for true acceptance
“I feel like I”m drowning in this life” their crying.
I have seen it all,
I’ve heard the call.
“I can’t move away” I say
I stay here and really do nothing
I remain so content to drink the mead I’m given.
I love my polished brass, it blocks my eyes from the pain.
My feet are content on the stained wooden floors.
Out in the chasm I hear the fleeting whispers still.