I walk down hallways,
with a creased forehead,
being derided, being loathed
as seclusion as my only comrade.
I pace down boulevards,
with an unnerved cringe upon my face,
and the feeling of being judged,
and the desperation for seclusion.
I stroll down stairs,
wanting to cry, despite my tear-less eyes,
desiring the comforting arm
of seclusion, around my shoulder
I saunter down lanes,
endeavoring to be oblivious
to the outside world who scorned me,
while I sought after seclusion.
I tread down fields,
trying my hardest to escape,
all the cynical, disdainful expressions,
and to hide myself in seclusion.
No matter what I endure,
I know that a hand looms overhead
which I hold onto persistently,
and that is the hand of seclusion.