I keep my circles in a little row, A deck of rooms where I can come and go. When one room fills with smoke, I take the cue, A slow, polite retreat—I slip on through. I don’t pick sides, I don’t engage the fight, I just grow quiet as the heat takes light. A gentle fade, a door that clicks so low, To where the grass is greener, and I’m slow. So tell me now if this is wrong to do, This quiet art of seeing something through By stepping out, the moment it gets strange— This strange and lonely game. I land beside a different set of friends, Where conversation starts and tension ends. I laugh again, I let the moment mend, A traveler that doesn’t have to send An explanation or a final word, Just company that hasn’t heard The echoes of the place I left behind. It’s peace I’m seeking, not a single mind. So tell me now if this is wrong to do, This quiet art of seeing something through By stepping out, the moment it gets strange— This strange and lonely game.
