Sometimes I feel as if a ghost,
Living life apart from most.
Watching them, their joy or sorrow,
Participating not, now nor morrow.
A voyeuristic existence,
Keeps me from real comfort hence.
It is as if a sheet of glass,
Divides me from whatever class.
People will do this or that,
And I can but an eyelid bat.
It is somehow a pleasant state,
For connection to abrupt abate.
Yet if I wish for something deeper,
I’ll be naught but the happy sleeper.
I do take comfort from the thought,
That earned solace be not for naught.
Until then I gaze quite patiently,
Thoughts of love savoured pleasantly.