Grey rocks
Carefully arranged,
The patterns we make
Important to ourselves.
Defiant as a child.

Behind where I stand
Even higher concrete walls
Have been placed
So that we can enjoy
The view of our
Delusion.

But no longer
Do we often look.
Standing as far
Back as possible.
From caring.

No one tolerates
The storm
Any longer.

Ignoring the swell
We try to filter out
The noise
Ringing in our ears
From a distance,
Waiting to crash
Into our defences.
It's hard work.

But the storm
Always finds a way
Somehow.